


Until The Snow Melts

by LadyLilyMalfoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst, Angsty Draco, Child Abuse, Christmas, Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Drarry, Fluff, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Hero complex Harry, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, If you like the feeling of your heart being trampled and patched repeatedly this work is for you, Lucius Malfoy is a terrible father, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Quidditch, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Young Draco is a sad little thing, let's pretend Voldemort isn't a Thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18332399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLilyMalfoy/pseuds/LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: When Harry picks Draco Malfoy's name from Dumbledore's unique (and highly questionable) rendition of 'secret santa', he thinks he knows what to expect. But messing with time-travel is never without its complications. Meanwhile, approaching the end of Hogwarts, Draco is faced with the reality of his parents' plans and how little he wants to be a part of them.





	1. A Christmas Wish

**Author's Note:**

> This story is been in development for a lonnng time, ever since reading 'It's Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood' by Antigone Q https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1205031/1/It-s-Never-Too-Late-for-a-Happy-Childhood  
> I've been craving some good ol' Drarry, so enjoy this angsty slow-burn!

 

**_1989_ **

He lies curled beneath the covers of his bed, staring blindly out into the darkness at the thin sliver of light beneath his bedroom door. He doesn’t dare blink, he doesn’t dare breathe, as though if he loses concentration long enough to do either, that’ll be it. He doesn’t want to be any more frightened than he already is.

It has been hours, it feels like, since he’d been caught on the landing, hours since he’d been dragged back to his room with the promise of, _I’ll deal with you later._ His father’s words — hissed and furious — still ring in his ears like they’re new, his cheek still aching from the slap that punctuated the promise. 

Maybe later meant tomorrow, but Draco cannot be sure. He can never be sure. And, anyway, he doesn’t have a hope of sleeping now. He’ll be awake until it is done, whether that means tonight or tomorrow.

He’d been stupid to think he could get away with it, he knows that much. After being warned to explicitly to stay in his room, to not be seen. He’d been stupid to think he wouldn’t be caught. He’d just thought… he’d just wanted… _Don’t cry_ , he tells himself sternly as a sob catches in his throat. _If he comes and you’re crying, you’re dead._

No more risks. 

Still, it’s hard to breathe. Every breath catches, every breath makes him feel like he’s going to be sick.

 _Just get it over with_ , he nearly wishes. But that isn’t true. It’s inevitable, the beating, and the waiting is unbearable but Draco doesn’t wish for it, even just to get to the other side. Pain has been a part of his whole life, but he’s never got used to it. His father always makes sure of that. Knows exactly how to make it so. 

The creak of a footstep outside his door and Draco whimpers, the smallest sound dragged from his lips.

Not for him though. Not Father. 

Relief hurts. 

More than anything, he wishes he could just stop existing until it’s over.

Maybe at all.

A shuddering breath and he curls under the heavy covers.

Christmas tomorrow. 

He’s already ruined Christmas with his own stupid disobedience. 

Deserves everything he gets.

Every stripe of the belt.

The buckles flashes in his mind and he buries his face in his pillow, damp and hot from unwilling tears. 

_Stop crying. Malfoys don’t cry. This is your own fault. Should’ve known. Did know. Your own fault, you’re so stupid._

Maybe— 

Maybe because it’s Christmas, Father will be in a forgiving mood. Maybe fear is punishment enough. Maybe the slap was the worst of it. Maybe tomorrow all will be forgotten. Maybe—

The door clicks and Draco’s breath freezes dry on his tongue. 

He should move, stand, face Father and try to be brave.

Can’t. 

Isn’t. 

If he doesn’t move, there’ll be fingers twisting in his hair, dragging him up and shoving him down across the desk.

If he doesn’t move, it’ll be worse.

Doesn’t.

Can’t. 

Can’t breathe.

Can only wait and exist until it’s over.

Nothing happens. 

Draco waits.

Still nothing.

Risks a look.

And meets shocked green eyes. 

 

*

 

Of course, it was just Harry’s bad luck to draw Malfoy’s name from the hat. He cursed when he read it, begged to pick again. Was very sternly refused and told, in no uncertain terms, that he agreed to play by the rules when he signed up and these, Potter, are the rules. You can only draw again if you pick your own name, and yours has already been picked. And no, you may not switch with anyone else. 

So Harry had groaned and sworn and protested, then dragged himself down to Hogsmeade to find _anything_ that a seven-year-old Draco Malfoy might want that he didn’t already have.  Harry could picture Malfoy as a kid very easily — spoiled, pampered, a brat in smaller form. Basically the less rotund version of Dudley, the very thought of which made Harry wince. What was supposed to be fun, Harry now dreaded with every fiber of his being.

_Just get it over with._

He complied with all the rules, setting off for his turn with the Time-Turner with the tiny model dragon stuffed in his pocket at the allocated time, nodded in all the right places and promised to not speak with anyone but the child in question. 

“Be very careful, Potter.”

“Yes, Professor.” 

One go of the turner, one Apparition. 

He hadn’t realised how fucking _big_ Malfoy Manor was. And, of course, they’d be right in the middle of a fucking party at midnight on Christmas Eve.

 _Don’t be seen_ proved a lot fucking harder than Harry strictly thought was worth it.

Malfoy probably had ten million dragon toys. Probably had a whole fucking wing of them.

Luckily, he’d thought to bring his invisibility cloak. 

He’d landed outside the door that was supposed to be Malfoy’s bedroom but took a moment to be certain, the sounds of the party filtering up to the landing. It was so fucking ostentatious, like Buckingham Palace itself. It was impossible not to be awed. Even compared to Hogwarts, it was a sight. 

Finally, he went back to the first room, took a deep breath, and let himself in. 

It is dark, pitch dark, but then again it is midnight.

He pauses to listen for the sounds of a sleeping child.

Nothing.

It’s like the air is frozen. 

For a moment, Harry thinks about leaving, of trying his luck in a different room — there must be hundred in the Manor — but it doesn’t feel empty. Just… _frozen_.

A flick of his wand light one of the lamps with a soft, orange glow. 

It’s definitely a bedroom, but nothing like the bedroom he imagined Malfoy to grow up in. There are no toys, no abundance of a spoiled princeling. It’s like an adult’s room, neat and pragmatic. Ostentatious, certainly, but not a _child’s_ room. 

There’s a lump beneath the bedclothes but still no sound.

For a horrible, peculiar moment, Harry can only think that Malfoy must be dead.

Then the lump shifts and a pair of frightened grey eyes stare out from amongst the covers.

Harry almost laughs until the boy pushes himself up and away, and he can see the bright new bruise on his cheek.

Something heavy and sickening drops into his stomach. 

The boy doesn’t speak, only stares, trembling. He has Malfoy’s bright blond hair and blue-grey eyes, his pyjamas are Slytherin green, and he has the pointed features Harry knows and dislikes so well. 

But, still, Harry isn’t certain.

“Draco?”

The boy reacts only slightly, a little flick of the eyes, but it’s confirmation enough. His name on Harry’s tongue does nothing to quell his fear. 

“I’m—” Harry struggles, trying to find an introduction and an explanation that will comfort him. This wasn’t what he had been expecting. This wasn’t what he had prepared for. “I brought you a present,” is the best he can manage. 

“A present?” the boy — Draco — echos, little more than a whisper. 

Harry nods, rummaging through the pocket of his robe for the dragon. The creature sits neatly in his palm as Harry offers it.

Draco doesn’t take it, doesn’t take his eyes off Harry.

“Are you here for the party?”

“No. I… I came to give you this.”

“Why?”

“It’s a Christmas present.”

“Why?”

It’s not the irritating ‘Why’ of an overtly precocious child, determined to drive their companion past the point of distraction, but the genuine, desperate questioning of someone who’s learnt to be distrustful. 

And _I picked your name out of a hat_ does not feel like a valid answer. 

Still, it’s the only one Harry has and he opens his mouth to give it when something makes the boy freeze and his attention fix on a spot behind Harry. On the door.

Then Harry hears it too. 

Footsteps. 

Their eyes lock in mutual horror.

“You can’t be here,” Draco whispers. “He’ll be angry. Please. Go.” 

There is nowhere _to_ go, not with so little time and the door now blocked off.

Only the cloak in his hands. 

Harry sweeps it over himself and sinks down into a corner just as the door swings open. 

Draco slides to his feet and stands to attention, hands locked behind his back, as Lucius Malfoy strides in. 

The door slams in his wake and Harry sees the pale marks in Draco’s wrist where his nails dig into his skin. 

The boy is scared to death. 

Maybe it’s being crouched low to the ground, maybe it’s the fact that he’s hiding, but Lucius seems even more imposing than Harry remembers. Maybe it’s the fury on the man’s face as he stands over his young son. 

“What did I tell you this evening, Draco?”

“I…I-I—”

Harry jerks like the slap had been for him.

Draco is still on his feet but only by the hand locked into the front of his pyjama shirt. He hangs from the man’s grip like a broken doll. 

“I told you to stay in your room,” Lucius hisses. “I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed me _again_.”

“I-I’m sorry. I just… I just wanted t-to see—”

“Stop crying.” 

“F-Father—”

“ _Stop crying!”_

It is the sight of the belt dangling from Lucius Malfoy’s fist that finally unlocks something in Harry.

No. Not on his watch. Not even Draco Malfoy.

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

Draco falls, dropped as the belt is whipped from Lucius’s other hand, and there are three seconds as Harry darts, grabs the boy, and Disapparates. Long enough for Lucius to stare in shock as Harry appears out in mid-air and steal his son. 

  


*  


 

**_1997_ **

Theo Nott looks up from his book as Draco enters the common room and collapses into the armchair opposite him by the fire.

“Well, how was it?”

“Uneventful,” Draco returns, pulling his legs up beneath him. 

“Did they like your gift?”

“I believe so.”

Theo snaps his book shut and glares at his friend. “You’re really not going to give me anything, are you?”

A smirk slides across Draco’s lips and he closes his eyes. “Rules are rules. It’s called _secret_ Santa for a reason.”

Theo’s glad Draco doesn’t see his spectacular eye-roll. He hadn’t signed up for Dumbledore’s latest and strangest initiative, and had been surprised when Draco revealed he had.  “It could be fun,” was the best anyone could get out of him when questioned. And, “It’s our last Hogwarts Christmas. I want to make the most of it.”

‘Last Hogwarts Anything’ had been Draco’s recurring theme for the whole of this school year so far. They are all feeling it, the distinct knowing that this is their last year before adulthood, but it seems to be affecting Draco most of all. 

For all his complaining, Theo knows how much Draco loves this castle and what a blow it will be to leave. So much so that he’s even refused to return to the Manor for the holidays, preferring to spend it studying in front of the fire in the Slytherin Common Room. 

Theo is fairly sure — though he would never say so out loud — that Draco would happily go back and do all his school years over again, just to spend more time here. 

Even only life would be so kind. 

Speaking of which—

“A letter came whilst you were gone,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it was your father’s owl.”

Draco stiffens, his face a tense mask as he reaches reluctantly to take the crisp envelope from Theo’s fingers. He slices it deftly open, gives a cursory glance over the contents, then replaces the letter and tosses it into the fire.

“What did it say?”

“The usual,” says Draco curtly. “Wants to know when I’ll be returning home and why I’m so determined to upset Mother and why haven’t I written this term.” He hisses through his teeth, arms tightening around his knees. “He has me for the rest of my damned life after May. I don’t understand why he can’t just give me these next few months and leave me _alone_.”

“You know why,” says Theo gently. “Because he’s him, and when has he ever been willing to leave you alone?”

Draco doesn’t talk about his father’s plans for his future, but Theo knows Lucius Malfoy all too well, and he knows Draco even better. And the less Draco talks, the worse things invariably are. And Theo worries. He, personally, has no plans for post-Hogwarts and his gran’s trying to make him anxious about that but Theo _much_ prefers being in this position to Draco’s. He wishes they could just piss off to Spain or Italy or somewhere (anywhere) and leave Lucius and Malfoy Manor firmly in the past.

Unfortunately, Draco takes his responsibilities far too seriously. 

“Don’t worry about it,” says Theo quickly before Draco sinks into one of his moods. He nudges his friend. “Come on, it’s nearly Christmas and we’re here and it’s Hogwarts and fuck your father. Want to go steal some eggnog from the kitchens?”

Despite himself, a smile tugs in one corner of Draco’s mouth. “Eggnog’s disgusting,” he says, accepting Theo’s hand. 

 


	2. Saviour

 

He falls through time and space and lands on his knees, vomiting until there’s nothing left but acid and cold. Draco coughs, spitting blood on the grass. He doesn’t dare open his eyes. The world is spinning too fast and all it’ll do is tip him over. Something frozen wet soaks into his pyjamas, cold air whistling through his hair. When he can finally breathe again, it’s fresh on his tongue. 

Palms flat on the ground, Draco squints. 

Outside. 

Evening time. 

Not the Manor.

Panic sparks.

_Not the Manor._

There is nowhere in the grounds where the grass is this long or this soft, and his heart thudders as he remembers the man in his bedroom. Who’d appeared from nowhere with a dragon in his hand. Who’d saved him.

 _Saved him._  

The sight of the shock on his father’s face burns behind hid his eyes. He would’ve thought it was a dream if this world wasn’t so real. 

“Malfoy?”  

Draco jerks, twisting, falling backwards onto his elbows.

The man with black hair and green eyes, the man who saved him, is on the ground too, a little way away, round glasses crooked on his face; eyes wide with nothing but concern. He crawls the length of a pace towards him, and Draco recoils. 

The man stops immediately. “You alright?”

He can barely put meaning to the question, let alone find an answer. 

“Just sit still for a moment, okay? Apparating always makes me feel sick, and then time-travel on top of that—”

“Time-travel?” Draco whispers.

The man grimaces. “Oh, yeah, right. Look, let’s head up to the castle and I’ll explain everything. And get you fixed up too.”

Draco touches his jaw, the ache still sharp and new. He knows what he must look like. 

“I have to… I have to go back. I have to go home.”

He scrambles up, wobbling, the world pitching him back onto the ground. 

“Careful now,”

He skitters away from the man’s hands, there trying to help. 

“Where am I? Where’d you take me?”

“Hogwarts. You’re at Hogwarts. You’re safe here.”

“Hogwarts?” He sees it now, the dark silhouette above the trees, as real as the grass between his fingers and the snow soaking into his pyjamas. “No. I can’t be here. You have to take me back. You have to take me back!” He doesn’t realise he’s leaped at the man, doesn’t know he’s grabbing at his robes — _robes?_ — until there are hands on his shoulders, holding him back. “Please,” Draco begs. “Please. I’ll be in so much trouble.”

“You’re safe here,” the man says again, like it’s a promise, like it could possibly true. “This is the safest place in the world. That’s why I brought you here.”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Harry Potter—”

“No it isn’t,” says Draco at once. “No you’re not. Harry Potter’s my age, and you’re—” But the man pushes back his hair and the scar is stark on his forehead, and the sight of it takes all of Draco’s breath and words away.

“You know what this is?”

He nods. 

“My name is Harry Potter,” the man says again, “and I want to help you. Please, let me.”

Draco’s lip goes between his teeth. He wants what is offered so badly it hurts but, at the same time and more real, he knows it can never be true. There is no such thing as a safe place, not one out of reach of his father. Even Hogwarts. And no-one can help him. Not properly. Not permanently. Maybe for a moment, but it never lasts and it’s always worse. Better to just put up with it and not antagonize. Better just to accept—

Draco thinks of the belt dangling from his father’s fist and shudders. 

This is a bad idea. He _knows_ it’s a bad idea. It’s bad and stupid, just like him, and he’s a fool if he thinks it could ever end any other way because his father always wins _always—_

But—

_Please let me._

But he _wants_ it. 

_One Christmas wish._

Draco nods. 

 

*

 

The boy’s hand is frozen in his own, and Harry can feel him shivering the whole walk through the forest and up to the castle. It is, after all, the middle of winter and he is only dressed in a thin pair of pyjamas, already half-soaked through. Even after he drapes his own cloak around the boy’s shoulders, it makes no difference. Cold is only a small part of it anyway. Harry knows what panic feels like, looks like, fear of the known versus fear of the unknown. He knows exactly what is coursing through the boy’s blood right now, and it has little to do with the wind-chill.

 _Fuck being forbidden to Apparate inside the grounds_.

There is no plan, at this point, other to get inside and into the warmth. The rest can wait. He doesn’t want to think about a stupid reckless thing he has just done, snatching a child from the past right under his father’s nose, can’t even begin to think about the consequences. 

They don’t matter. To hell with them.

He knows, beyond any reasonable doubt at all, that there was nothing else he could’ve done. 

No way. 

Hogwarts is a sight to behold, rising up out of the dwindling evening light, and Harry sees it all through the boy’s eyes like new.

He can’t help but grin, glancing down at the wide, entranced eyes and the open mouth, all hungry and awe-struck; the little fingers an iron grip on his arm.

There is no-one outside, thankfully, too late and too cold for most students, but as the doors open up for them, light and warmth and life flood out. 

He feels the boy balk and Harry takes a pause on the threshold. 

“It’s alright. I know it’s a lot. Stay close.”

A beat of hesitation, and Draco slips a little closer to Harry side, allowing Harry’s arm around his shoulders as they step inside together. 

  


*

 

“I don’t know why you expected to find anything but Butterbeer down there,” Draco says, inspecting the label on one of their stolen bottles five landings above the entrance hall. “Really, you do have the worst habit of setting yourself up for—” He glances back to where Theo stopped ten paces behind. “Theo.”

“What?” Theo tears his gaze away, frowning and distracted. “Oh, yeah, right.”

“What did I say?”

“Something about Butterbeer.” 

Draco sighs, stalking back to join his friend, trying to see what has Theo so distracted.

“Stop.”

He freezes, then frowns. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Go back to the dungeons. Here—” Theo pushes his own armful of butterbeer at him. “Get started with Pans. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Where’re you going?”

“There’s just… There’s something I’ve forgotten.”

And before Draco can ask anymore questions, he wheels and runs back down the stairs.   
  


*

 

It’s exactly how he has always dreamed Hogwarts would be, and Draco can’t stop staring. He doesn’t even want to try. He wants to drink it all in and make it real and keep it forever, the warmth prickling on his skin and the rush of noise from _all_ the people and the sound of the stairs moving above them like they have minds of their own and the eyes of the portraits following him, pointing, muttering.

He presses closer to Harry Potter, hiding in his side.

He doesn’t like people looking at him, even pictures.

He has to trot to keep up. Harry knows exactly where he’s going and he seems to want to get there fast, almost rushing him along, so quickly there’s a breeze in his hair, too fast to catch anyone’s eye.

Maybe that’s point.

Maybe he’s a secret.  Maybe he has to hide to be safe. 

But they don’t go into an empty room with no windows and a door that locks, Harry leads him to the end of a long corridor three floors up that opens up into a huge, bright room lined with clean, white beds.

A hospital.

Draco freezes.

His head aches, right behind his eyes, and it feels like a bad idea all over again. 

Most of all when the woman dressed in maroon and white comes stalking towards them. 

“Potter,” she says in an angry voice that closes up his throat. “What have you done now?”

And then her eyes fall to Draco, and far more than safety he wants the ground to swallow him up. This doesn’t feel like safety. Like Hogwarts. 

“Potter, is that—”

“Yeah. It is.”

She stoops, trying to peer into his face. “Mr Malfoy?”

Draco holds tighter to Harry. 

“What happened, Potter? A potions accident? I know you and Mr Malfoy have had your differences but this is really—”

“No, it wasn’t an accident. Not really. Look, I’ll explain everything, I promise, but will you just take a look at him? He’s freezing cold and he’s in pretty rough shape, and— Just look at him, please. The rest can wait.”

She straightens up, unimpressed, then beckons to him. “Come with me, Mr Malfoy.”

He doesn’t know how she can know him, doesn’t know what she’s going to do and Father hasn’t given him permission to be healed and if he goes home all fixed up, he’ll know and he’ll be angry, and he doesn’t want her to see, doesn’t want anyone to see, and he still feels sick from the travelling and the confusion and—

“Come on. Come and sit down before you fall over.” Her voice grows softer and Harry’s hands on his shoulders guide him to the nearest bed. They all have curtains around them, and as soon as he’s perched on the edge, she pulls them around to block out the rest of the world.

Draco jerks to his feet. “Harry—”

“I’m here.”

“You can go, Mr Potter. I’ll take it from here.”

“I’m not leaving,” Harry snaps. “Not if he’s asking me to stay.”

Harry Potter is the pillar holding everything else up. As little as he knows anything right now, Harry Potter is the one certainty and if he’s here, it’ll be okay. No-one’s ever stood up to Father and won before.

And, likewise, if he leaves—

“Don’t go,” Draco begs, refusing to sit. “Don’t leave me.”

Harry Potter smiles down at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  


*

 

The boy is only calm as long as he has a grip on Harry’s sleeve.  

Pomfrey crouches before them and reaches for the boy’s bruised chin, gently tilting his face towards her. Malfoy doesn’t resist, but Harry feels the tense energy coiled all the way through those fingers. Her expert gaze sweeps over him, taking in the damage to his cheek, the cut on his lip, and the yellowing-purple beneath his eye, all impassive, refusing to be shocked.

“Is there anywhere else?” she asks.

The boy winces, breath catching in his throat, and forces a nod. 

"Show me.”

She is asking too much, too quickly, Harry thinks. He brought the boy here to recover and heal, not be bullied and interrogated. Draco is trembling, badly, battling with his instincts — between obedience and fear — the hand not holding onto Harry reaching mechanically for the silver buttons of his pyjama shirt, unable to disobey an adult’s command.

Harry stomach gives a sickening lurch the moment the shirt slips from the boy’s shoulders.

Draco Malfoy’s back is a mess of scars, crisscrossing over his skin, shoulders to hips, new and old and everything in between. Some bear the distinct mark of a buckle. 

Exposed, he sits very _very_ still besides Harry. 

Pomfrey is still also, her expression unfathomable. Then she rises. “Okay. Stay there.”

Like they were going to go anywhere. 

“I’m in trouble. I-I knew I was in trouble.” The smallest voice, barely a breath. Harry looks down. Draco is staring after Pomfrey, tears gathered in his eyes. He scrubs them quickly away then, on a deep shuddering breath, falls into his hands. His whole body contracts with the effort of not crying.

“No, you’re not.” Harry pulls the boy close and holds him tight, acting purely on instinct, knowing what to do only from what he knew he would’ve wanted. “I promise you. No-one’s angry. You’re not in trouble. You’re safe here. Just like I said.”

“Potter’s right.”

Pomfrey is back, her expression grim but kind.. 

“Here,” she says, offering a beaker filled with a clear liquid Harry is sure isn’t water. “It’ll give you the good night’s sleep I know you need. It’s been a big day for you, Mr Malfoy.”

Harry feels the boy go weak with relief, reaching almost eagerly for the potion, needing to just _not be_ for a while.

He raises it two-handed to his lips, then looks up at Harry. “You’ll stay?”

“I’ll be here until you fall asleep,” Harry Potter promises. “And I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Draco nods, searching his face for the lie and finding none. Then he does as she ordered and pulls his legs up, settling back against against soft pillows. He is tired. _Bone_ tired. Sick from it. But his head… It’s going a hundred miles a moment and feels like it’ll never stop.

It tastes like water. 

Harry catches the glass as it slips from his fingers, asleep before the last drop. He shifts back against the pillows, letting the boy’s head rest on his arm and takes a moment to just look at him, trying to see him as the Draco Malfoy he knows and loathes. 

It’s impossible. 

_I don’t understand._

Most of all, he doesn’t understand what the hell he is supposed to do now.

“Can you fix him?” Harry asks on the other side of the curtain. 

Pomfrey assesses him, deciding if he can take the truth. “It will take time,” she says eventually. “Time I don’t know we have. We will…” She sighs. “We will do our best with what we have but I doubt it will be enough.”

“I know I shouldn’t’ve done it, but I couldn’t—”

“I know, Potter. I’m just not sure anyone else will.”

Harry’s chest tightens. He pushes his fingers hard through his hair. “I need to talk to Dumbledore.”

Pomfrey catches his arm as he starts to turn, stopping him gently. “You need to rest,” she says, “just as much as he does. The rest can wait until tomorrow. Dumbledore included.”

Harry smiles at her, exhausted and grateful. “Thank you.”

“Potter.”

Harry turns at his name and sees a boy his own age frozen in the door way, vaguely familiar in Slytherin robes. _Nott_ , he manages after a long while. Theodore Nott.  And by the look on his face—

“Wait,” says Harry. “I don’t know what you saw—” 

But he knows exactly what Nott saw, and the pieces clicking into place. 

“Don’t tell him,” Harry begs. “Not yet.”

Nott looks at him warily. “That’s Draco in there. Who I saw you with in the Hall.”

“Don’t tell him.”

“Can I see him?”

 _No_ , is Harry’s automatically defensive response. “He’s asleep.”

“Please.”

A please coming from a Slytherin, from one of Malfoy’s cohorts, stalls him, and Nott uses it to his advantage. Pomfrey doesn’t try and stop him. 

Nott draws back the curtains and stares down at the sleeping boy, taking in the sight of him, the damage still blatant despite the ointment. 

Then, softly, “Thank you, Potter.” 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note to say I'm blown away and so grateful for the response to the first chapter T_T Thank you!


	3. Cannot Change the Future, Cannot Change the Past

 

“I’d forgotten how small he was,” says Theo softly.

“Small isn’t the first thing I noticed.” Potter’s voice is brittle with a repressed anger that Theo understands well. When he looks away from Draco, Potter’s hands are fists at his side.  

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“You lot knew about this?”

“Us lot?”

“His cronies. His _friends_. You knew the way that man treated him?”

“By which you mean his father?”

“Of course I fucking mean—”

“Out.” Pomfrey has had enough. She pushes them away, one hand on each of their backs. “Not in my Hospital Wing.”

Outside is fair game. 

Theo crosses his arms and braces himself. 

“Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you help?”

“I’m sorry, suddenly you’re an expert on our entire history because of one act of rash courage? You think you know anything because you’ve spent, what? An afternoon not at each other’s throats? Look—” Theo lowers his voice, all too aware of the humming life that is this castle. “I’m assuming you picked Draco’s name for Dumbledore’s game and that’s why you’re in this mess, right? How old is he?”

“I— I don’t know,” Potter admits. 

Theo laughs. “You don’t know? But you know enough to start throwing blame around? Listen, I have been Draco’s friend since we were _six_. That’s eleven bloody years to your single hour—”

“And in that single hour, I’ve—”

“You’ve what? _Saved him?_ ” The sneer comes automatically, any gratitude or relief at the sight of Draco finally safe from the reach of Lucius Malfoy consumed by contempt of this Gryffindor’s arrogance. 

“Yes,” Potter snaps. “Exactly.” And he believes it too. 

“What happens when he has to go back?”

“He’s not going back.”

“Can you hear yourself? There is already a Draco Malfoy in this timeline. There isn’t room for _two_. He isn’t a stray dog you’ve picked up and taken home—”

“He is not going back,” Potter repeats. Then more quietly, “You tell me you want to send him back, if you’re such good friends.”

Theo’s mouth pulls tight. Truthfully, he wishes he’d done exactly this a thousand times over. Every time he’d visited the Manor only to be told that Draco was ‘ill’ or ‘indisposed’, to go upstairs anyway to find him in a state similar to the one the boy in the hospital wing is in now. Similar or worse. Often the latter. 

 _‘I’m fine,’_ Draco would insist, lying. And, when Theo begged to help, _‘Don’t. It’ll only make it worse.’_

Over and over.

Snape tried too, with equal lack of success. They all had.

Only Potter had succeeded where the rest of them had failed. 

Theo raises his chin. “What’s your plan, then?”

The Gryffindor looks even more pissed, then deflates, shaking his head. “Sleep.”

“Merlin, Potter—”

“You think I don’t know what I stupid thing I did?” Potter hisses. “You think I’m not fully aware that first thing tomorrow, I’m going to have to tell Dumbledore and then I’m going to have to look that kid in the eye and tell him he has to go back? You really think I don’t know that?” He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “It’s fucking Christmas. No kid should feel like that at Christmas.”

“Please don’t think I’m disagreeing with you.”

They stand in the corridor together, in this strange new alignment, neither quite sure yet what it means. 

“Are you going to tell him?”

“He’ll find out eventually, Potter.”

“What will he think?”

“I know him well, but I don’t think anyone knows him that well. I don’t think even he could tell you how he’ll react to this.”

“Can we just…wait?”

Theo nods. “I think that’s best. Give him time to just—”

“Be.”

“Heal.” Theo gives a heavy sigh. “I know how this will end, but maybe in the meantime you can do him some good that might just last.” Then, awkwardly, “Look, would you mind just… keeping me informed? I’d like to see him. And I think I could help.”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad of a familiar face,” says Harry. “It’s been a lot. And I don’t think he’s really aware of the time-travel part yet. I’ll let you know when I know.”

Theo nods gratefully. “I appreciate it.”

 

*

 

“The hell’ve you been?” says Draco cheerfully, raising his bottle in a toast as Theo finally returns. He lies lengthways across the settee by the fire, Pansy on the other side, their legs entangled. Blaise has draped himself over his favourite armchair. They all stare at him as he plonks himself down on the floor without response.  “Theo?”

Theo spent the whole journey from the hospital wing to the common room trying to concoct and adequate excuse, and has come up with absolutely nothing.

He grabs the bottle from Blaise’s hand and drinks until he hopes they’ve forgotten.

Knowing perfectly well they won’t. 

“I got a migraine,” he tries eventually when they don’t stop staring. “Went to Pomfrey for a potion.”

“Why would you go _there_ when we literally live right next to the Potion’s Master?” 

“Oh—” Theo waves a vague hand at his head. “You know, not quite thinking straight. I feel better now, anyway. Cheers!”

Pansy and Blaise chink with him, but Draco’s eyes only narrow into deeper suspicion and Theo suddenly wishes ardently that they weren’t quite as close as they are, that they don’t know each other quite as completely as they do. 

He has to look away, and he know that only makes it worse. 

“So, I was _saying_ ,” says Pansy, “before I was so rudely interrupted, _Nott_ , that we should make a pact to spend Christmas together next year. I know it’ll be harder to congregate, being our first Christmas graduated, but if we start good habits as soon as possible—”

“None of us know where we’ll be this time next year,” says Blaise. 

"That isn’t the problem,” says Draco crisply. “The real issue is that we know _exactly_ where we will be this time next year, and most likely it isn’t together. If Pansy isn’t married by then, she’ll be courting and inundated with obligations. Blaise, you will be in the middle of a questionable dalliance in central Paris. Theo, you will probably be at the Manor at my invitation because otherwise Christmas with my family and whatever appropriately pure-blooded girl Mother has tethered to me will be so awful I’ll take an Unforgiveable to myself and the only thing worse than a wayward heir in Father’s eyes is a dead one so he’ll let me invite you but we’ll never get to spend any time together and you won’t come again.” He grins and drinks and wishes it was anything stronger than Butterbeer.

They are silent, the crackle of the fire like laughter in the grate.

Draco glances between them, the grin dying to a thin smirk. “Oh please, tell me I’m not completely right.”

“It…doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Of course it bloody does.” Draco’s eyes fall as he swallows, shoulders as rigid as stone. “Let’s not pretend otherwise. Why else is this year so important? It’s our last year.”

“Well, _I_ won’t be married off,” says Pansy sifting away from the misery at the other end of the sofa. “Blaise and I have our own plans—”

“You really think your mother will let you go flouncing around France after what they did to your sister?” Draco snaps back. “They’ll tie you down and call you a madwoman if you resist.”

Anger flushes Pansy’s cheeks, and she looks just about ready to jump him when Blaise murmurs, “None of us are seers, Malfoy. As inevitable as the future feels, it isn’t.”

Draco rolls his eyes and stands. “Yours might not be,” he says, stalking away from them. 

“If he’s going to be like the rest of the year,” says Blaise lightly, “I’m seeing about moving Houses.”

Theo snatches up two unopened bottles and follows Draco. 

He finds him perched on the edge of his bed, back to the door. 

Theo knocks gently, knowing how little Draco enjoys surprises. 

“You should stay up there with the others,” says Draco, not looking around. “I’m obviously not very pleasant to be around currently.”

Theo slips in, closing the door behind him. “They understand. I do too. We know it’s hard for you. This year.”

Draco’s whole body falls in a breath as he takes in the room that has been home these past seven years. “I’m not ready to let it go.”

“I know.”

“I’m not ready to… be what they want me to be.”

Theo perches beside him, offering a bottle. “And what’s that then?”

“A grownup.” His breath catches and his head falls forward. “Another iteration of Father.”

“Draco… You will never be like him. Never.”

“I will. I’ll have to be. He’ll recraft me until I am. I… I don’t know how much I can take. How long I’ll be able to resist. I just know he’ll… he’ll win in the end.”

It is only in here, within the solid walls of their dormitory deep beneath the castle, door tight shut, that Draco permits himself to speak candidly. It has always been so. 

Theo doesn’t know what he’ll do without this little sanctuary. 

He thinks of Draco before Hogwarts, and his heart hurts. 

“I can promise you one thing,” he says, nudging Draco gently.

“Mmm?”

“I’m never going to refuse an invitation to Christmas, even if it is in the Manor.”

Draco laughs, letting his head rest against Theo’s. “That makes things a little more bearable.”

 

*

 

 Hermione is trying fruitlessly to teach Ron the better method for Arithmancy when Harry finally drags himself to the top of the castle and into the Gryffindor Common Room. She looks mildly annoyed when Ron’s already fragile attention breaks completely, but seeing what caused it, she puts the book down and turned in her seat, as curious as he.  “Well?” ‘

Harry looks back at them wearily. “Well what?”

“Well, how was it?” Ron gets to his feet, glad to stretch his legs after a long evening of _sitting_ . “What was it like? What was _he_ like? Did you count the toy dragons?”

They’d been joking just a few hours ago about how Malfoy’s bedroom was undoubtedly crammed full of dragons, that he probably already had a hundred of the one Harry had picked out. 

Ron’s wide grin falters at Harry’s expression, then falls hard into a frown. “Did something go wrong?”

“Look, I… really need to sleep, okay?”

Hermione bars the way, knowing everything without knowing any of the details. There is no way he can escape her. She had cautioned against this whole fiasco, as she called it, criticizing Dumbledore’s casual attitude towards time-travel. _‘The casual attitude that gave you two-hundred percent third year,’_ Ron muttered. This will, inevitably, end in a stern, ‘I told you so’. 

“Were you seen?” she demands. 

The laugh comes before Harry even knows what it is, and once it starts, he cannot stop. Being seen is literally the least of it, and she’s so concerned and it’s so ridiculous—

Harry sinks down onto the sofa and pulls off his glasses, wiping the tears from his eyes as Ron and Hermione exchange concerned glances.

“Just a bit.”

“Oh, Harry—”

And they’re going to find out eventually, so it might as well be now.

Harry tells them everything, from the moment he left the castle to the moment he came back to the Common Room.

They both stare at him, not speaking, for a long while. Ron wants to be impressed, wants to go in for a high-five, but that doesn’t quite seem right. And Hermione… Hermione is _furious_.

She goes bright red, drawing up like a balloon before letting loose with an explosive, “You can’t just _do_ that! You can’t interfere in the past! You _know_ this! It’s bad enough that Dumbledore’s encouraging everyone to go back, but to bring him back _here…_ to the _future_ , Harry! Where there’s already another one of him.” Red goes white. “What’ll happen when Malfoy finds out? What if they meet? Harry, you have to send him back before anyone else finds out, before any more damage is done.”

“No,” says Harry, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s that.

As far as Hermione’s concerned, it very much isn’t. 

“ _Don’t be so bloody stupid, Harry James Potter. Don’t be so selfish!”_  

“Selfish? Are you _shitting_ me, Hermione?”

They glare at each other, nearly nose to nose, both so assured in their conviction as Ron lingers uncomfortably at the side. 

Then she asks, “Have you told Dumbledore?”

“No. I haven’t. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because Pomfrey said—”

“Why didn’t you go straight to Dumbledore?”

“Because that kid’s in a shit shape, and being dragged up to the Headmaster’s office tonight wasn’t going to help.”

“Because you know he’ll make you take him back.”

“No,” Harry snarls again, the word more a sound in his throat. “Look, I will go to Dumbledore tomorrow. That’s the plan. I will, I promise. But I don’t care what he says, I don’t care about the intricacies or the complications, I don’t care about Malfoy, only that it’s Christmas and that kid’s had the shit beaten out of him and that’s not _right_.” His voice breaks at the last word, and he’s so angry with himself. “When I signed up for this game, I did it thinking about myself. About when I was a kid and stuck in that cupboard. I remember Christmases, and I remember them being the word. It would’ve given me so much hope and light to have someone visit me. Even a stranger. And that’s what I wanted to do for someone else. I was pissed when I got Malfoy’s name because I figured he deserved it least. That’s not true. And whilst some trinket from the magical world might’ve been enough for me, it’s not for him. He didn’t need a toy dragon, he needed someone to save him. I’m know I’m headed for a hundred lectures. I don’t need one from you too.”

Hermione’s arms make a severe line across her body. “I just don’t understand what you were trying to achieve. You know you’ve only made things worse, don’t you? Whichever way you look at it.”

“No, I don’t know that. I don’t believe that. But it’s not your problem, alright? So back off.”

“You could be expelled,” Hermione hisses, grabbing his arm as he tries once more to pass. “You could be _arrested_ . You are so close to graduating, is that what you want? And for _Malfoy_?”

Harry’s teeth grind. He hadn’t thought of it like that. He doesn’t want to think of it like that. 

He rips his arm free. “It’s done,” he tells her. “I can’t change the past.”

“He’s so stupid,” she whispers as he disappears up the curling staircase. “How can he still be so stupid?”

“You really think they’ll arrest him?” Ron falls back onto the sofa, tugging Hermione with him. “You think it’s that serious?”

“Time-travel is always serious. Dumbledore was an idiot to let people just play with it like that. If there weren’t consequences, anyone could just wander back and change the past. It isn’t done for a _reason_. How does he not understand that?”

“I think he does,” says Ron gently. “But I don’t think he cares.”

  


*

 

Harry is tired all the way through to the marrow of his bones, but he lies awake in the darkness, sleep denying him. Hermione’s right, Harry can’t pretend she isn’t. She and Nott both. He should’ve left it alone. Not his concern. Not his business. Leave the dragon and go. What’s done is done.

And all the rest of that shit. 

Whatever happens, whatever the consequences — and Harry knows they will be significant — he doesn’t regret what he did, and he’s ready to tell them all that in so many words. Would do it all over again. And if they want to arrest him or expel him, or whatever over this, that’s fine too.  Harry rolls over and presses his face into his pillow, trying not to think of Draco Malfoy. 

  
*

 

Draco rarely sleeps well, it is a condition he has learned to adapt to over the years, but lately it’s been worse. He puts it down to the ticking clock, counting down the days until there is no more Hogwarts and nothing left to look forward to as he descends into the monotony of life as The Heir to Malfoy Manor directly under his father’s gaze without hope of reprieve, He knows precisely what it will entail — he only need think of his father to see himself in the future — and the closer June gets, the harder it is to pretend that it isn’t happening. Usually the dreams that wake him concern the future, the faceless shape of the girl he will marry, a child cringing away from him, the locked box of the study that will become his, but tonight he dreams of Harry Potter.  It is a strange dream, more real after waking than any other, and Draco attributes that to the battering of his heart as he lurches awake. Green eyes wide with concern, the strange sense of relief, of safety that won’t go away as ridiculous as Draco knows it is. 

Th _e hell kind of dream is this?_

He grimaces, groping blindly for the water goblet and the little bottle of Dreamless Sleep he always keeps for nights like these. 

Nightmares don’t necessarily feel bad. 

Draco knows from experience that kindness can be just as frightening as fear. 

  



	4. Friends in This World

 

When Draco wakes up, he keeps his eyes shut for as long as possible because even though the sheets feel crisp and light instead of the heavy covers of his bed, even though the light on the other side of his eyelids is bright and white instead of low and orange, he still cannot quite trust that it wasn’t all a wishful dream. Even when he finally does open his eyes, squinting to see Harry Potter grinning from the seat beside him, he still isn’t quite a hundred percent sure.  “Good morning,” says Harry in a real voice. “How’re you feeling?”

“You’re here.”

“I said I would be, didn’t I?” 

Draco grins bemusedly, then pushes himself up, testing his body. “Better, I think.” Then, almost a confession, “Hungry.”

“I thought you might be. Here.” Harry offers a plate of toast and a glass of something orange. “Thought we could have breakfast together.”

It’s the best breakfast Draco has ever eaten and it’s all he can manage not to stuff the whole plate in his mouth at once. They are, sharing after all. He has to be careful not to take more than half.

He eyes the last piece hungrily when Harry doesn’t take it.

“It’s yours.”

“It isn’t.”

“I know how much energy a big healing takes.” Harry nudges it closer. “It’s yours.”

Draco grabs for it and nibbles around the edge.

Harry Potter is different in the daylight. Realer. And Draco can’t stop staring. He’d imagined Harry Potter a hundred times over, crafting the image a little more thoroughly every time he heard The Story, passed between the mouths of children. The scar is exactly like the one he imagined, but the rest of him… 

Draco drops his gaze. It feels too rude to ask. 

It’s like waking up slowly from a lingering dream, except the dream is real, and the more awake he gets, the less sense anything makes. He can’t help but poking it for logic will only make it dissolve faster, and Draco doesn’t want to let go. Whatever this strange world is, he knows he wants to stay in it as long as possible, and it feels like that means keeping his mouth shut and his questions inside.

He can feel Harry Potter watching him, can sense the curl of the smile like he can feel Draco’s curiosity. 

He risks a look out of the corner of his eye. 

“Go on,” Harry prompts.

Draco shifts, sitting a little straighter, up against the pillows. “How old’re you?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“I thought you were younger. I thought you were my age.”

A grin slips across Harry’s mouth. “I am.”

Draco’s eyes go wide, and his stomach gives a leap he’s not sure is nerves or excitement. Maybe both. Probably both. 

“You said… You said yesterday—” Because he’s remembering now, more bits and pieces, the more awake he gets. “You said it always makes you sick, time-travel. Is that… what happened.”

Harry nods. “That’s right. I was playing a Christmas game. Anyone who wanted to could pick a name out of a hat, then they’d travel back in time to visit their younger selves with a gift. I picked yours.”

“Mine,” Draco echoes. The meaning slips slowly through him like a trickle of water. “That… That means I… I go here? To Hogwarts?”

There’s a question in Harry’s face when he says, “That’s right.”

It’s too big.

Draco slips back down under the sheets, heart hammering. His whole life, his father has been adamant that Draco would attend  _ anywhere _ but Hogwarts. He was studying for the Durmstrang exam only yesterday, two years from school-age. Hogwarts is a forbidden word in the Manor. 

What changed?

As far as Draco knows, there’s no will in the world that has the power to change Lucius Malfoy’s mind. 

“What House am I in?”

“What House do you hope you’re in?”

_ I don’t care as long as I’m here. _

“Slytherin,” says Harry when Draco takes too long to reply. “You were very keen on telling everyone in ear-shot that your whole family’s been in Slytherin for generations.”

Draco thinks of all the emerald-green and glittering silver at home, and the scarf Professor Snape brought him home as a souvenir last time he visited in the holidays. He thinks of it hidden under his bed, away from his father’s contempt. Slytherin for generations, but it ends with him. 

“And you’re—” Draco tries to see, looking for the clues, but Harry Potter isn’t in any kind of uniform Draco recognizes. 

“Gryffindor.”

“Oh.”

“Are you disappointed?”

Draco isn’t about to tell Harry that most of his Hogwarts dreams include an imaginary Harry Potter, hoping they’re in the same house and as inseparable as he is with Theo. He tries again to look for clues. He’s so nice and kind, it seems impossible that Harry Potter might not like him, so maybe that might mean—

“What was that?” Harry asks when he doesn’t catch Draco’s embarrassed mumble. 

“Are we… friends?” 

He doesn’t like the shift in Harry’s expression. It curls deep into Draco’s stomach and makes him wish he’d never asked so he could go on pretending. Draco bites his lip and turns his face away.

“Hey,” he hears Harry coax. “We just move in different circles. That’s all. You and I can be friends?”

“Really?”

“Really.” 

Harry puts out his hand. It’s warm when Draco slips his own into it, and he laughs when Harry gives it a thorough shake. “It’s official now.”

“That we’re friends?”

“Friends.”

The soft click of curtain hoops interrupts. 

Draco looks around, expecting the nurse.

But it’s not the nurse. 

It’s someone who looks like Theo but older. Harry Potter older. 

“Theo?”

The boy gives a smile that’s more relieved than anything else and comes straight to him, pulling him into a tight hug. He feels like Theo. 

The familiarity is such a relief, one anchor in this strange dream-world.

Draco clings. 

“I came to see you yesterday but you were sleeping.” Theo pulls back, searching Draco’s face the same way Snape does when he’s been away for too long, checking for damage. “How’re you feeling?” 

“I’m okay.” The words come automatically the same way they do when Theo visits the Manor. An instinctive lie, but more true than it’s been before. “Harry says I time-traveled.” 

Theo’s eyes flick to meet Harry’s, and something passes between them that’s too quick for Draco to catch. 

“He says… He says that I’m at Hogwarts and that I’m the same age, so I came to Hogwarts with you. Are the others here? Pansy and Blaise and everyone?”

“Yeah,” says Theo. “Everyone’s here.”

Draco grins, pushing against the strange tension filling the curtained room. 

“Has anyone come to see you yet?”

“Just Harry. He brought me breakfast.”

“That was kind of him.”

“Yes.” 

Another look, and Draco’s lip goes between his teeth, anxiety threading through his blood and tightening his shoulders. 

“You can’t keep this a secret, Potter. You promised you would tell them first thing this morning.”

_ Potter _ . 

That’s not a friendly voice. 

Harry’s face is colder than it looks like it should be. “Did you tell anyone?”

“I said I wouldn’t. But it was difficult.” 

“Tell who?” Draco whispers looking between them. “About me? I’m not supposed to be here. They’ll send me back.” He was never under any illusions, but Harry had insisted it was safe, that it would stay safe, and the thought of being sent back after what happened, after being away— “I don’t want to,” he says quickly. “I’ll hide. I don’t mind. I don’t want to go back. Don’t tell if they’ll—”

“They won’t send him back once they know what Lucius Malfoy is like,” says Harry.

But Theo only laughs. “Do you really believe that, Potter? You really believe it was such a well-kept secret?  _ They don’t care. _ ”

Stinging cold prickles across Draco’s skin. “Who?”

“Dumbledore.”

_ Dumbledore. _ He knows the name best spat in his father’s voice, filled with poison. Dumbledore is the person that keeps Snape at Hogwarts and away from him. Dumbledore is the reason he’s alone and the reason why he’s not allowed to go to Hogwarts. 

Dumbledore, Draco knows, is not on his side. 

Harry doesn’t disagree. They all know what’s going to happen the moment they step beyond the curtains, and none of them want to commit to it. 

“We should go to Snape first,” says Theo at length. “Before Dumbledore. If anyone is willing to advocate, he will.”

“Professor Snape’s here too? He still teaches?”

“Of course. He’s head of Slytherin. He’ll want to see you, Draco.”

But Harry’s mouth has twisted.

“What is it?” Draco makes himself ask.

It is Theo who answers, the words dry, “Potter and Snape have something of an antagonistic relationship.”

“I just don’t think someone with such a long history of looking away should be the person we trust first,” says Harry crisply. 

Theo bristles. “He’s Draco’s godfather, even apart from—”

“Why didn’t he do anything?”

“ _ There is nothing to do! _ ” 

“Stop,” Draco begs before the knot in his stomach gets any tighter. They are glaring at each other with such blatant dislike, he can’t stand it. This isn’t what Hogwarts is supposed to be. 

“Quite right. Stop it.” The nurse whips back the curtains with an even bigger glare than Harry and Theo put together. She is carrying a whole multitude of equipment that Draco knows is meant for him. “Mr Potter, Mr Nott, I won’t ask you again to keep your disagreements out of my hospital wing. Mr Potter, you gave your word that you would inform the Headmaster of your actions. I suggest you keep that promise. Mr Nott, Mr Malfoy could use an advocate when the headmaster arrives. Can I trust you to deal with that? Mr Malfoy and I have some business to attend to.” 

“Don’t go,” says Draco automatically, nearly grabbing for Harry’s sleeve, fingers stopping just shy as he catches himself. Heat flares in his face. He is in no position to make demands. Caught somewhere between begging further and apologizing, Draco drops his gaze.

“It’s alright.” Harry Potter crouches until Draco’s looking down at his face and seeing the promise there. “I won’t be long. You need to stay here and be looked after. I think there’s quite a lot that needs doing, right?” Above them, Madam Pomfrey nods. “So you’ve got some stuff to do, and I’ve got some stuff too, and when they’re both done they’ll make everything much better. And afterwards I can show you the castle and we can have lunch in the Great Hall, and we could even go down to the Quidditch Pitch—”

“One thing at a time, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey interrupts. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

But Harry keeps watching Draco until the promise starts to feels true and raises a smile. 

Harry grins. “Be back soon. Do what she says.”

 

*

  
  


The first thing Snape tells them is: “I knew something like this would happen. I  _ warned _ Dumbledore—” Then his irritation snaps to Theo, “Did you know Draco was participating?”

“Yeah.” says Theo. “He didn’t say much about it but he couldn’t exactly pretend he wasn’t.”

Snape shakes his head, stalking from one end of his office to the other and back again, muttering words like, “Stupid boy,” and, “What was he thinking?” Then, “You didn’t think to inform me, Theo?”

“I don’t think this is a bad thing,” Theo returns, more snippily than Harry was expecting. He’s used to the Slytherins treating Snape with such reverence, it’s like he’s suddenly privy to a whole new world. “At least, I don’t think it has to be.”

“And you, Potter? What on earth did you think you could achieve with this reckless—”

“Someone had to do something,” Harry snaps. He couldn’t help it even if he wanted to. Just looking at Snape makes him sick, that he has the audacity to cast blame when he has done  _ nothing _ . “Even if it is, I dunno, ten years too late.”

Snape stops and stares straight at him, dark eyes bright with fury. When he speaks, it is very quiet and very dangerous, “You have no idea what you have done, Potter. Once again, you have proven that you cannot and will not look three feet in front of your nose and take anyone who isn’t you into consideration.” He advances, looming right over them. “Let me guess,” says Snape silkily. “When you signed up for Dumbledore’s little  _ game _ , you were thinking of your own nine-year-old self, weren’t you? How wonderful it would be to have a wizard appear in that awful muggle house to assure you that there is hope for the future. To be comforted and reassured. That’s why you did it, isn’t it, Potter?”

Harry glares right back, refusing to be intimidated. “So what if it was? Are you trying to tell me you wouldn’t do the same?”

Somehow, Snape’s gaze chills even further. “I would know better than to interfere in the past. Even at  _ your _ age.”

“If you had interfered in the  _ present _ , maybe it wouldn’t be necessary to—” 

“ _ Professor _ .”

Snape stops mid-lunge at Theo’s voice, inches from Harry. “You know nothing, Potter.”

“I saw him,” says Harry levelly. “I saw Draco and I saw his dad. I know enough. Even Malfoy deserves better than that.”

Snape turns away with a scoff. “ _ Even _ Malfoy, is it? You’ve deemed him worthy of basic human kindness, therefore—”

“Why are you turning this on me? What is wrong with you lot? I know you’re not supposed to mess around with time-travel, but maybe the consequences aren’t going to be bad. Maybe if Malfoy was exposed to something good, he might turn out a bit more—” Finally Harry falters under the weight of two raised eyebrows. 

“Mr Malfoy is just fine.”

“He is not.”

“And you would know, would you?”

“Sir,” says Theo. “Maybe Potter’s right. Not to do it, but that’s done now. But he already seems better just by being here. If we could convince Dumbledore to let him stay—”

“You are both forgetting the small matter of another Draco Malfoy. He is not going to like this.”

“Maybe he doesn’t get a choice.”

Theo winces. 

“Or maybe,” Harry continues, “maybe he should have a say. This  _ is _ him, after all. Maybe he should get to decide what happens to him.”

Snape and Theo exchange very significant looks. 

“What?”

“Draco, unfortunately, never developed the ability to think of himself as an independent entity.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Theo translates, “that his parents say jump and Draco obeys. They make the decisions and he does what he’s told.”

“Then maybe that needs to change.”

“Do you really think you change just change seventeen years of habits?”

“No, but maybe I can change nine of them.”

Theo looks almost admiring. Snape looks completely disgusted. “He doesn’t need  _ you _ to be his hero.”

“Obviously he needs someone, and clearly none of you are willing.” 

“I say we let him try.” 

“This is madness, Nott. Not to mention  _ highly _ illegal. Regardless of the abuse of the time-travel restriction clause, you stole a nine-year-old child from his home. That is kidnap.”

“It’s not kidnap if he wanted to come.”

“Children do not get to choose. Not in this world,” Snape snaps. “Were it not the case, do you not think I would’ve—” He stops abruptly and closes his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath. “We all know how this will end. All you have done is delay the inevitable.”

“Maybe so,” says Harry. “But in the meantime, can’t he just be allowed this bit of happiness? Even if it’s just a dream.”

“Unfortunately that isn’t up to me, Potter.”

“Dumbledore?”

“Dumbledore.” Snape shifts uneasily. “Don’t expect much. Don’t expect anything. I have tried to have this same conversation with him over and over to no avail. He has always remained resolute. Rules are rules, and if an exception is to be made for one it must be made for all. I cannot picture this being any different.”

“But if anyone has a chance, it’s Potter.”

Snape considers Harry carefully for a long while, trying to see something he missed before, looking for a way to share Theo’s new faith. Wanting to, Harry realises. 

“I can do it,” he says, telling both of them. “I can convince Dumbledore. I know I can. He trusts me and this happened for a reason.”

A thin smile twists Snape’s lips, and Harry’s not at all sure if it’s in derision or amusement. 

“You are determined to fight for this, aren’t you, Potter?”

“Yes. Isn’t that obvious?”

“I’m surprised you are so willing to advocate on behalf on someone you’ve been openly warring with for so many years.”

“I don’t see how I could’ve done anything other than what I did. I really don’t. Anyone who’d seen that and  _ not _ tried to do something is— Whatever. I don’t care. If you think I’ve got a shot at Dumbledore, I’ll take it and see what happens from there.”

“And what about Draco?” says Theo. “Does he have a right to know or is it better to keep it a secret?”

“I suppose it depends on how long young Mr Malfoy will be staying with us. I do know, however, that Draco is not going to be happy if and when this comes to light.”

Theo winces in agreement. 

“We will approach Draco tactfully if it becomes necessary to do so. Potter, I request that you stay out of his way and do not rouse his suspicions until then. Far better it comes from us than from you. Focus on Dumbledore and the boy.”

“So it’s fine with you if I take care or him?”

“When I was a boy,” says Snape carefully, “I had the tendency to bring home strays. My mother wasn’t happy about it, but she said that if I wanted to go through the trouble of bringing them into the house, I could go through the trouble of taking responsibility for them. No-one else should be required to do your work for you, Potter. As long as the boy is here, he is your responsibility. If we’re lucky, Theo is right and you will make the difference we never could.”

Harry doesn’t want to know what the unlucky option is. 

 

*

 

It isn’t like house-elf magic, nor is it like the stuff Snape uses to take away the marks and the pain. It’s different, deeper, and Draco can feel it all the way into his bones and through his muscles. Madam Pomfrey works methodically, using whatever is necessary from moment to moment, be it magic or salve, testing his ribs for old damage and the half-healed break in his wrist from last year that still twinges. The one that Father said didn’t matter because it was in his left wrist and there’s no such thing as a left-handed Malfoy and maybe this will teach him once and for all. She lets the marks be, saying she doesn’t deal in cosmetics. She’s the opposite of Father who usually only lets the elves take away surface damage, to make him look okay even if he isn’t. By the time she’s done, there are still the shadows of punishment but Draco feels better than he’s felt in the longest time. He tests his fingers. They don’t click like they sometimes do.

“Thank you,” he tells her. 

A nod is the most she’ll accept his thanks. “I want you to stay resting at least until tomorrow. You’ve gone through a lot of healing today, and it’s going to take time to regain your strength. I’ll have Potter bring you books if you like.”

“Will he come back?” Draco asks, carefully pulling his legs back up to lie down again. “D’you think it’ll be long?” 

“Potter has some difficult conversations to face, but I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he can. Nott too. He was very worried about you last night.”

“Theo always worries.” He hadn’t realised how tried he is until he’s lying against the pillow, his whole body thrumming from the healing. “He seems nearly the same even apart from being older.”  “Some people know who they are early on,” says Madam Pomfrey. “Others change much more. I think you are the latter, Mr Malfoy.”

“Me?” Draco opens his eyes to stare at her. “Did you know me when I was here?”

Madam Pomfrey gives a little quizzical smile. “Didn’t they tell you? You’re still here.”

He supposes, distantly, beyond the hammering in his chest, that that makes sense. Harry knows him, his name was there to be picked.  _ He _ must’ve put it there. 

_ Another him _ . Right here, right now. 

“Can I—”

“We’ll see,” says Madam Pomfrey, which Draco knows to mean ‘no’. She continues a little stiltedly, “It was a reckless thing Potter did, bringing you here. There are consequences of time-travel.”

“I know that.”

“It would probably be better, the fewer people are made aware of this situation.”

“Before I have to go back.”

“Quite so.”

It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but Draco can’t keep his mouth twisting downward. Probably something to do with all the healing magic sucking out his energy. Harder to pretend to be fine when you can hardly even stay awake. 

“Harry says I’m to see the castle and eat in the Great Hall and see the Quidditch Pitch.”

“I know. I heard him.”

“D’you… D’you think I’d be allowed to stay until then?”

There isn’t much difference between five minutes and ten minutes, between one day or two. Moments like there are never enough, and Draco knows it. Still, he wishes she would lie, wishes she’d just say, ‘Yes of course, it’s fine for you to be here.’ Even if it isn’t true.  The next best thing to a lie is the truth. 

“What’s going to happen to me?” 

“That depends,” says a man’s gentle voice just before the curtain’s tugged back, “on how easily we can find your way home.”

Draco’s whole body seizes up at the sight of the wizard. 

_ Albus Dumbledore.  _

  
  


*

 

_ Draco,  _

_ Your persistent neglect of your duties is bordering dangerously on insubordination. I had hoped we had raised you better than to be so disrespectful and can only presume it comes from some mistaken assumption that because you are now of age you are no longer beholden to your families values. I should not have to remind you that that is not the case. Now more than ever, you are my son, you are a Malfoy, and you are the heir to our name. It seems you are in need of a reminder as what that entails.  _

_I expect a written response and an apology to your mother by the end of the day, including the precise time you can expect to arrive in London tomorrow that we might arrange a car to bring you home._ _Your presence at the Christmas Eve Ball is not optional. You will be there._

_ Lucius Malfoy _

 

The letter arrived in the beak of his father’s owl, a viscous creature who seemed determined to follow Draco around, flashing its talons, until he sat down with quill and parchment to commit to paper the letter he’d been avoiding.

 

_ Father, _

_ Please extend my apologies to Mother, but I cannot in good conscience leave my studies for the holidays. I am sure she will understand that my last period of academia must be prioritized over the certain distraction of potential spouses she is excited to push upon me. I will resume my Malfoyish responsibilities posthaste as soon as my N.E.W.Ts are over once and for all.  _

_ Merry Christmas, kiss Grandmother Seraphina for me. _

_ Your son and heir to the Malfoy name, _

_ Draco Lucius Malfoy. _

 

The owl gives him a look before it flies off, as though it knows all too well how this letter will be received. Draco knows too, can imagine the precise grind of his father’s teeth the moment before the fury that is rightfully Draco’s is unleashed on the nearest house-elf. Draco doesn’t care. He’s very good at making himself not care. These next few months are  _ his _ , and he’ll be damned if he’ll let his parents take them away from him.

Not that he isn’t damned anyway. 

He watches from the tower window as the owl disappears into the Southern sky.

The backs of his eyes ache and his chest feels too tight.

He goes to look to Theo, all too aware that he needs to be talked down before he spirals too badly. 

He hasn’t seen Theo since this morning when he disappeared off early and secretively before anyone could really question him. Pansy and Blaise had shrugged, not caring. Theo’s business was, after all, none of theirs, and none of Draco’s either technically. But Theo isn’t usually secretive. Not from him, anyway. And the point of all of them staying this holiday was to stay  _ together _ . And anyway, no-one else is quite as good at reminding Draco of his father’s mortality and being convincing as well.

He  _ needs _ Theo right now. 

But Theo isn’t anywhere. 

Draco searches the usual places, all the way down through the castle, his grip on his own sanity getting more and more tenuous the less successful he is. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. This isn’t a justifiable cause of a panic attack, but he’s been more prone to them lately. Less equipped to push them back.  _ He needs Theo.  _

All the way down to the dungeons and Theo isn’t here. 

Draco slumps against the nearest wall and breathes and swallows until he can think again. It’s still mid-morning. The day isn’t wasted yet. He could permit himself a rest before lunch and then study hard this afternoon. If he chases after books now, he’ll end up just sitting and staring at words that made sense yesterday but refuse to today. 

Maybe he’ll ask Snape for something to take the edge of. 

He squints into the pale, flickering light of the torches.

Snape’s office is four doors down. 

Manageable. 

Draco pushes himself up and makes for it.

Theo comes out of the office with Potter.

_ Potter. _

Draco freezes, the shock of the strangeness of the sight of them together too much to digest. They do too, expressions identical.

Guilty. 

It is Potter’s most of all that he cannot look away from. There is something strange there, something bordering on impossibly familiar, something that doesn’t make sense on  _ that _ face, directed at  _ him _ . 

“Hey,” Potter starts as though they’ve ever had a conversation that begins with ‘hey’ before. But it’s Theo’s face that staggers him the most. They have been best friends for a decade, they know each other completely without any such thing as secrets between them, but there is a secret there now, visible behind Theo’s eyes. One that Potter knows and Draco doesn’t. 

“What—” he’s about to start, about to answers from either or both, but Snape interrupts. Snape who is clearly in on it too. 

“Draco,” he says with a beckon. “A word, please.”

He has never wanted to less. His whole body resists, the same way it resists a call to his father’s study or a request to stay behind from McGonagall. People who are not on his side. Not his allies. Putting Potter with Theo and Snape on one side with him separate on another pushes Draco’s headache over into a migraine. 

 

*

 

“It seems you’ve had quite a journey.”

“Yessir.”

He doesn’t dare look up, just keeps his head angled down and focusing on his fingers and trying not to fidget. Professor Dumbledore’s auror is as heavy as Father’s. Draco can feel it, pressing down on his shoulders like hands.  “And Madam Pomfrey has been taking good care of you?”

“Yessir. Harry Potter too. Sir.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Potter.”

“Is he in trouble?” Draco’s eyes flick up before he can stop himself. Bright blue catches and keeps him. Draco trembles. “He shouldn’t be. If he is. He was… He was just trying t-to—”

“The purpose of his journey was to bring a Christmas gift,” says Dumbledore. “I think Harry did that, don’t you? I cannot be angry at him for choosing something so apt. Even if it is a little—” Dumbledore tilts his head thoughtfully, looking for the right word, “ _ unorthodox _ . But that’s rather usual for our Mr Potter. He never was one for doing things by halves.”

It isn’t that Draco doesn’t understand the words coming out of the Professor’s mouth, more that they are impossible to put together against what he thought he knew.

“Where is he?” Draco makes himself ask. “Where’s Harry?”

Dumbledore glances back towards to the hall outside. “I would imagine he’s looking for me right about now.” He smiles when he looks back to Draco. “But I wanted to come and meet you for myself first.”

“How’d you know about me if he hasn’t told you yet?”

“My dear boy,” says Dumbledore. “This is my school. There is very little that goes on that I do not know about. Anything I don’t know, I choose not to know. And I like to think I know Mr Potter reasonably well by this point. One might say this was inevitable.”

“They said you’d send me back.”

“You can’t stay here,” Dumbledore agrees. “Not forever. But I don’t see how a little time in this world could do any harm until we find a way to send you back to your own.” The professor glances back over his shoulder almost casually. “You lost it, didn’t you, Harry?”

Harry looks like he’s stumbled out of a very confusing dream. “What?” 

“The time-turner. Do you still have it?”

“No, I—” Harry frowns, then pales. “I left it outside the grounds,” he says on a horrified breath. “I wasn’t even thinking about it when we landed. I just wanted to get us back. I’m sorry. I’ll go and—”

“I wouldn’t concern myself too much,” says Dumbledore. “Once the snow melts, it will be easier to retrieve. I won’t have you freezing to death over such a trivial thing.”

“ _ Trivial? _ ” Harry stares and shakes his head. Then, “I went to your office. I was going to tell you—”

“As I have just explained to our young Mr Malfoy, there is nothing that takes place in this castle that I am not made aware of immediately.” He grips Harry’s shoulder, the jewels of his rings glittering in the light. “It is Christmas, Harry. It is not the time for such concern.” 

“Not the time?” Harry echoes, a breath, a laugh. “I was ready to fight you.”

“There is no need.”

Draco catches Theo’s eye behind Harry, lingering a little way away, just as confused, just as wrong-footed, not daring to put faith in the words they all hear. 

To be allowed to be here… To be allowed to stay…

Draco opens his mouth to ask, to make sure, because it’s always better to know than not even if it doesn’t feel like it. 

But a storm comes through the curtains, a storm that slams straight into Harry and snarls, “ _ How dare you?”  _

A storm that looks just like Father. 

 


	5. Until The Snow Melts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Title Change!

 

“You had no  _ right _ ,” Draco spits, so close Harry can feel it, as real as the hands locked into the front of his t-shirt, slamming him back. “You had no right to interfere, to  _ humiliate  _ me—”

“Draco—”

“ _ No! _ ” Even sharper, even more vicious, there is nothing but blatant hatred in the stone-grey eyes glaring at him, no resemblance in the soft blue-silver of the boy’s. “You don’t get to call me that. You have no  _ right _ ! You think, because you are the  _ fucking _ saviour, the precious  _ golden boy _ , you can play with people and do as you please without thought or consideration—  _ Get off me!” _

Theo does his best to tug him away, but Malfoy turns the attack straight on him. “You  _ knew _ . You knew and you didn’t tell me!”

Nott, for his part, is unphased. “We were waiting for the right time. I knew you would take this badly.”

“ _ We _ , is it? You and Potter, now?"

“Stop being ridiculous and calm down.” “ _ You lied to me. _ You came back to the Common Room last night, knowing about  _ this _ , and you  _ lied to me. _ ”

“Not telling you is not the same as lying, Draco.”

“Yes it is. Yes it is exactly the same. You should’ve told me. You should’ve put an end to this. You are just as culpable—”

Harry looks from one Draco to another. This little one is just as rigid as his older counterpart, staring like he’s trying to take him in and make sense of it and finding it utterly impossible. Harry can see the unsteady rise and fall of the boy’s chest, the hitch in his breath, the glazing eyes. He knows that look. 

“Stop,” he orders and, by some small miracle, Malfoy does. The anger does not fade though, like the distant knowledge of a storm overhead. Malfoy’s teeth are clenched so hard they look like they’re about to crack. He looks so uncannily like Lucius. Harry moves to Draco’s side, shielding the boy. “You’re scaring him. Stop it.”

For the first time, Malfoy’s gaze slides down. It settles only for the barest moment on his younger self before he turns his whole face away as though he can’t stand to look at him then, very softly, very dangerously, “Take it back.”

“Take what back?”

“ _ That _ ,” Malfoy snaps. “Take it back to where you found it. It doesn’t belong here.”

Draco shrinks beneath Harry’s touch on his shoulder. 

Thick silence fills the hospital wing. 

“Draco,” says Theo slowly, “that’s you.”

“No. It isn’t. I am me. I am the only me. I don’t know what skewed dimension Potter snatched that from but it isn’t me. And I won’t have it paraded about so everyone can make their smug assumptions. See? It’s already twisted your head. Get rid of it. Take it back.”

The boy absorbs all of this without a word in his own defense.

Anger thrums through Harry’s whole body. 

“Look at him, Malfoy. Look at him properly.”

“Don’t you dare tell me—”

“I get that this is hard—”

“Do not presume to empathise with me, Potter. You know  _ nothing _ . I don’t care how you do it but  _ get rid of it.”  _

“Come on, Draco.” It’s Snape, appearing from nowhere and pulling Malfoy back, gently and firmly. Malfoy doesn’t fight him like he fought Theo; the professor’s arms a restraint around his own. 

A little of the fight gives. “This isn’t right. You know this isn’t right.”

“Potter knows what he’s done. Come. You need to let this sit.”

Malfoy tries to jerk away. A useless attempt. Snape holds on. “Don’t tell me  _ you’re _ defending him too.”

“Not him, Draco. You.”

A wordless snarl of revulsion and Malfoy finally wins. He staggers, panting, pink with the fury of betrayal, then turns on his heel and stalks away.

Snape watches him go, gathering himself, then turns to the younger Malfoy. 

Draco’s fingers are white and his grip tight around Potter’s arm, the shock of the encounter too much to process. But Potter helps him. He remains a constant, an anchor for the boy. And the boy accepts it without hesitation, without fear. Snape has never seen that before in his godson, and he has known Draco from the moment he came into this world, witnessed the slow development of his friendships, trust built gradually over years, drip drip like stalegmites, experienced it himself. Draco was four years old when Snape realised the boy needed someone and accepted that that someone was going to be him. But by that point, the worst of the damage was done. As strong as the bond between them, as certainly as Draco knew he was loved by at least someone, the wariness always remained, the flicker of fear of the question of  _ what if he’d imagined it? What if Snape was just pretending? _ It never stopped breaking Snape’s heart, seeing the doubt in the boy’s eyes, developed by his parents, that he was worthy of anyone’s affection. 

There is no doubt now, with Harry Potter close to his side, even in the midst of all this chaotic confusion. 

_ Maybe Theodore is right about him. _

And:  _ Let him stay here. Let him heal here. _

Snape turns to Dumbledore, ready to get on his knees and beg. He has asked so many times —  _ too many times —  _ and each time he has given in too quickly and too easily, accepted the stated status quo and resolved to work around it. There is no around it, no pretending that Draco Malfoy has been given a second chance and this is the place he needs to be. 

But Snape sees that Dumbledore sees it too. Not just sees, but knows. Perhaps, even, before he did.

Dumbledore catches his eye. “The time-turner is lost, Severus. The boy must remain here until it is found, whatever Mr Malfoy’s contestion.”

“I will… speak with Draco.”

“It would be good for him, I think, to become reaquainted with himself.”

“Not if he’s going to be like that.”

They both look down at Potter who glares right back, his arm a protective circle around Draco’s shoulders. 

“You’re not going to use him as some lesson for Malfoy. That’s not fair. I brought him here to catch a break. Malfoy’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Whether it was your intention or not,” says Dumbledore gently, “Mr Malfoy has everything to do with it. As much as you dislike it, Harry, this boy  _ is _ Draco Malfoy. It is he you brought here.”

Snape watches Potter’s mouth twist in unconscious distaste. He can’t help it, the intrinsic revile he holds for Draco. They are two seperate entities, the boy beside him and the young man who just stormed out. He watches, also, the moment when little Draco sees that twist. Despite being permanently overshadowed by Granger’s outrageous marks, Draco has always been one of the cleverest children Snape has known, and he has known many. It is certainly a product of rigorous training courtesy of his father, but nevertheless. Draco is fully aware that the boy who had been here is his future, is himself, and he knows what that look on Potter’s face means for him.

Snape watches the boy’s eyes drop and he shifts a little away from Potter’s arm. He catches the soft sigh of disappointment. 

“Draco.” He touches the boy’s chin, raising the bright grey eyes obligingly. Despite Pomfrey’s evident work, the shadow of Lucius’s hand still mars Draco’s face.  _ Nine years old. _ Severus remembers that Christmas. Is glad that, this time, it wasn’t allowed to continue. “Did you hear what Professor Dumbledore said? You’re allowed to stay here.”

“For how long?”

“Until the snow melts,” says Dumbledore when the question turns to him. “And we can find a way to get you home again. I hope Mr Potter can find a way to entertain you until then.”

“I can stay with Harry?”

“I think that would be best, don’t you? As long as Harry doesn’t mind, of course.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The fleck of trepidation breaks in a brilliant grin, and Snape isn’t sure he’s ever seen Draco smile like that before. 

 

*

 

“Tell me truthfully,” Snape murmurs on their way out. “Was this planned?”

Dumbledore’s gaze remains ahead as they take to the castle. “Can anything truly be planned when it concerns the will of others?”

Snape resists the almost-overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. “You know Potter’s character and you know Draco’s history. The conclusion was inevitable with the two together. Did you make him pick Draco’s name?”

“Any one of the many other who participated had the opportunity to draw Mr Malfoy’s name,” says Dumbledore. “I wasn’t even present. If you suspect foul play, have a conversation with Minerva. I’m sure she’ll have a great deal to say when the news reaches her anyway. By all accounts she was very specific with Mr Potter to follow instruction to the letter.”

Snape gives into the eye-roll. “She should’ve known Potter better than that. Why now?” he asks. “I’ve been requesting for years that Draco be allowed to stay here, and for years you have made me send him back to that place. Why are you permitting Potter to do what I have wanted to do for the whole of that boy’s life?” And Dumbledore simply says, “You know Lucius Malfoy well, Severus.”

Reluctantly, he does. 

 

#

 

It takes an hour to find Draco. Theo knows his hiding places and what they mean, and the degree to which Draco does not want to be retrieved. The back table in the library means he truly does not want to be approached. 

Theo lingers a little way away, watching his friend.

Draco’s head is bent down, staring at the pages of a brick-like tome, his eyes not moving. His shoulders are rigid lines and his hair is a mess. Draco’s hair is never a mess. 

He stiffens even further when he becomes aware of Theo’s presence.  “I’m sorry,” says Theo softly. 

“You should’ve told me.  _ Immediately. _ ”

“I know. And you know why I couldn’t.”

“You are  _ my _ friend.” The accusation hurls at him like a curse, and finally Draco looks up in a glare, all anger and hurt. “Not Potter’s, not… _ that thing’s—” _

“He is you, Draco. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

“ _ No. _ ” A fist thumps the table, making the ink bottle jump. “That is not me. I was never like that. I never looked like that. I was never that… pathetic.”

“He’s not pathetic,” says Theo, slipping over to stand on the other side of the table. “And neither were you. I remember you.”

“You remember incorrectly,” Draco informs him bluntly. “Maybe there are…  _ similarities _ , but I was not like that.  _ I _ remember. I know myself. And Father… You think he would’ve let me be like  _ that _ ?”

Theo says nothing for a long while, then, “If you think that kid’s weak, you weren’t looking properly.”

Draco’s eyes drop back to the page. “I’m trying to study, Theo. I don’t have time for this on top of everything else. If you wish to pick him over me, I will understand. Go and play Potter’s game and leave me alone.” A lip slips briefly between his teeth. “He’s staying, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Until the snow melts and they find the time-turner.” 

Draco curls a little further in on himself, unable to hold himself up or hold it all in. “They’re going to see him.”

“Who?”

“Everyone.”

Each words is a little quieter, a little more broken than the last, and Theo realises how frightened Draco really is. He has spent so long crafting himself out of that boy and into this one, has worked so hard he has forgotten — understandably — who he had once been. 

“Potter is kind. He will be good for you.”

“I don’t want Potter’s kindness,” Draco snaps. “And I won’t tell you again—”

“That isn’t you.”

Draco regards him warily. “No.”

“Alright,” says Theo. “That’s okay.”

And the worst of the anger leaves Draco in a rush that leaves him weak. His head falls into his hands, and Theo bridges the last of the distance between them.

Draco accepts the embrace.

“Father wrote,” Theo hears somewhere in his lower chest. “He won’t let me go.”

Theo holds him all the tighter. “It’s safe here. He can’t get at you here.”

“I know that. I should know that. Seven years and it still doesn’t feel this way. And now… it’s over.”

“Not yet. You’ve still a few more months.”

Draco shakes his head. “I’ll be lucky if he permits me to see the term out. I… I’m just trying to work it all out, and now  _ this _ on top of everything else—” He makes a bitter sound through gritted teeth. “Potter should be expelled for this. Were it anyone else—”

“Anyone else would’ve left the gift and left you,” Theo tells him gently. “Potter’s ridiculous penchant for heroics isn’t always a bad thing. Let it be good, Draco.”

Draco’s gaze cuts to him, sharp as a blade. “They do him no favours by letting him stay. It isn’t forever. Soon enough, he will go back and it’ll be all the worse for having a taste of  _ this _ . They aren’t being kind, they are being cruel, and they are all too stupid to realise it. All they care about is stroking Potter’s ego. It’s nothing to do with him, and it  _ certainly _ isn’t anything to do with me. I want no part in it.”

“It will affect you, whether you want it or not.”

“ _ No _ .”

“Alright.” Theo holds up his hands in surrender. “If you say so.”

“Don’t patronize me, Nott.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Draco glowers. Then, "If I asked you to stay away from him, you wouldn't, would you?"

Theo sighs and braces himself against the table with flat palms. "You don't think Potter could do with some advice when it comes to you? We have been friends for twelve years, Draco. I  _ know you.  _ And I don't want to steer clear. I  _ want  _ to be there, to see what happens. And you should too."

"You are supposed to be  _ my friend." _

_ " _ I  _ am _ ."

Draco picks up his pen, the motion so sharp it nearly splits the shaft. "Not as much as I thought, clearly."

 

*

 

Pomfrey’s orders are dreamless sleep before bed and a check in with her every other day to see how the healing is progressing, but other than that Draco is free to leave the Hospital Wing with Harry that afternoon. 

“You can’t go about in pyjamas the whole time you’re here,” says Harry, producing a short-sleeved shirt without either buttons or a collar, a pair of corduroy trousers and a bright green jumper made out of thick wool. “Hermione helped me with a charm to shrink some clothes down to fit you. Try them on. We can do more later if you want to pick out some things.”

“Hermione?” Draco repeats, tugging the top over his head. The material is stretchier and soft than the stiff, starched shirts and unyielding robes he’s used to, like they’re made to be a second skin instead of a restriction. He could reach all the way up if he wanted to and the seams wouldn’t pull his arms back down to his sides. He could run if he wanted to, and play.  “Yeah, you’ll meet her in a bit. She’s my best friend. One of them. You’ll meet Ron too.”

Caught somewhere between the nervousness of new people and the excitement of new friends, a grin starts its way across Draco’s mouth. Then stalls.

_ What if… _

Harry frowns. “What is it?”

_ What if they don’t… _

He remembers the look on Harry’s face at the name  _ Draco Malfoy _ . 

“Hey—”

“What if they hate me?”

“Hate you?” Harry echos back to him with a twitch of a confused smile. “Why would they—”

“You do.” He runs his fingers over the jumper’s wide weave, counting stitches. 

“How can you think that I—”

“The other me. The older one.”

Harry stalls. Again. Then, stiltedly, “We have a… complicated history.”

“He hates you too. Why?”

“Some people just don’t get on. And that’s okay.”

It doesn’t feel okay. Draco sucks his lip, the stitches blurring as he stares harder at them. Ever since the first fleck of hoping for Hogwarts and dreaming that one day he’d be permitted to go, Harry Potter had been a part of that dream. Imagining himself here, he’d always pictured himself as hard friends with the legendary Boy Who Lived, as close as he and Theo. Closer. That one part of the dream could come true and the other could go up in smoke so spectacularly… 

“If you don’t like him,” says Draco, testing the words carefully on his tongue, “why’re you being so nice to me?”

“I think,” says Harry carefully, “that that’s going to take some working out for me too. I don’t see you as the same person. When I pulled your name, I thought I knew what to expect and when I realised I was wrong… Well, everything changed. No-one should be treated the way your dad treated you. That’s not okay. No-one deserves that, not even the worst person in the world.”

He says it lightly, casually, but lead thudders right down into the bottom of Draco’s heart.

_ The worst person in the world. _

_ Harry Potter thinks he’s the worst person in the world.  _

  
  



	6. Your Own Mind

 

As entirely peculiar as the idea is that a pre-Malfoy Draco is going to be spending the holidays in Gryffindor Tower is, Hermione resolves to make the absolute best of it and wrangles Ron into doing the same. It’s easy for her, once she’s rationalized it to herself, but Ronald takes a little more convincing, which Hermione does as she sets about charming sets of clothes into a size that hopefully fits a nine-year-old boy.  “I get why he did it,” says Ron, half-heartedly tugging the sheets from Seamus’s bed and remaking them with new. “And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I just don’t get why it’s  _ our _ problem now.”

“It’s not a  _ problem _ , Ron—”

“Can we not pretend that this kid isn’t Malfoy? Nine isn’t that much different to eleven, and he was still a massive twat at eleven.”

“Try telling the First Years that,” Hermione returns, on the cusp of snapping. “It might not seem much different to us, but two years is a  _ long _ time when you’re little. I know I felt decades older than my cousin, and there was only one year between us. Think about you and Ginny. You’d be furious if someone said you might as well be the same age.”

This set Ron grumbling under his breath, a sure sign that Hermione has — as ever — won their debate. She makes a satisfying mark on her mental score-sheet. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she murmurs, folding the little clothes with a deft flick of her wand. “Harry trusts him. That’s good enough for me. He knows what he’s doing, even if no-one else does. This isn’t the time to play devil’s advocate.”

Gryffindor Tower had been rendered pleasantly quiet this holiday, with more students choosing to return home than normal, leaving mostly Seventh Years behind, keen to make the most of their final year. Seamus and Dean had gone to stay with Seamus’s family for Christmas, their first as an  _ actual _ snogging-in-public-because-to-hell-with-everyone-else couple, leaving a handily empty bed for the newest and youngest member. No-one has told Neville yet.  “And what do you think he  _ is _ doing?” Ron asks. “What’s Harry trying to get out of this? I get that he feels sorry for the kid, but it’s got to be more than that. Think he’s trying to save Malfoy?”

“Catharsis, maybe?” Hermione offers with a shrug. “Or perhaps it is as simple as pity. I’m not sure he’s given much thought to Malfoy.”

It’s easy to seperate the two, even now. The little boy saved from the claws of his father is Draco. The ass-hat they’ve always known and disliked is Malfoy. It’s near-impossible to meld the two from the way Harry speaks of them. 

Then Ron raises his head, listening carefully. “I hear Harry downstairs.”

“Well.” Hermione straightens up and smooths down her shirt. “We’d better go introduce ourselves.”

The slip down the curved staircase almost cautiously, Ron’s hand squeezed in her own, and they pause together at the bottom.

Harry is certainly back. The hearth crackles a welcome, the only sound of life in the Common Room — everyone else busy around the castle. The child clutching Harry’s sleeve in unmistakable. 

_ He is so small _ , Hermione thinks first, staring at the boy who stays pinned to Harry’s side. Much smaller than she’d assumed a nine-year-old would be. Was Malfoy that small when they’d met at eleven. 

It is strange to see him dressed so casually in Harry’s own clothes when they are used to seeing Malfoy in nothing but shades of formal-wear, even on weekends, even on holidays. The carefully groomed hair is no more, though it is of course the distinctive Malfoy-blond; rather it’s soft and mussed, combed quickly with fingers on an after-thought. The child bears Malfoy’s pale, pointed features; grey eyes bright with barely contained curiosity, and his paleness only serves to emphasize the bruise on his cheek.

Hermione squeezes Ron’s hand harder. 

It’s fading, healing, clearing having undergone Pomfrey’s rigorous routine, but still the pinks mingles with purple, and there is no doubt about the damage that has been dealt to this boy. And why Harry did what he did. 

_ She would’ve done the same in a heart-beat.  _

One glance at Ron tells her so would he. Even for Malfoy. 

A  _ hush _ of fur against her ankle and  _ pat pat  _ of four soft feet, and Hermione can’t catch Crookshanks in time before the cat trots up to Harry in Welcome, inspecting the stranger with a sniff. 

The boy’s eyes go wide and he presses closer to Harry, even as Harry dips to stroke the cat, showing the boy how to do it gently.

Hermione watches Draco Malfoy reach with a tentative hand, pushing his fingers through Crookshanks’s long fur. She watches the cat’s back arch in response, can here — even from here — the purr the rises in deep pleasure. She watches the smile start small on the boy’s lips, then crack into a toothy grin as he lets go of Harry and kneels on the floor to give his whole attention to Crookshanks. 

Harry rises, careful not to disturb either boy or cat, then looks straight to Hermione and Ron, half-concealed around the corner.

‘How’s it going?” Hermione whispers when Harry slips to join them. 

Harry bobs his head, looking after pleased and half exhausted. “It’s… going. I think he’s alright. One thing though.” And he leans in all the closer to them both, as private as it’s possible to be. “He’s a bit…  _ anxious _ that you’re going to hate him. So just keep that in mind, you know? I know it’s super weird, him being here but—”

“Why would he think that?”

Harry grimaces. “It got back to Malfoy, and he wasn’t pleased. There was a bit of a blow-up in the hospital wing. Anyway, Draco put two and two together and realised that there’s not a lot of good blood between me and Malfoy. It’s not sitting too well with him.” Harry blows out a tight breath, looking out to where Crookshanks is curling himself right around the boy. “I figure it’ll be best if we just totally forget that he’s Malfoy. Less confusing for everyone that way.”

“That certainly sounds like the least complicated method,” Hermione murmurs as Ron nods his agreement. “But I’m not sure it wouldn’t be better to try and reconcile the two in some way? If it’s already bothering him, don’t you think it would be a good idea to try and make peace with—”

“I tried,” Harry snaps. “I was ready to have Malfoy on board and empathise with him and work things through, but it’s him who’s determined not to. He wants nothing to do with me or him, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s fine. If Malfoy had his way, that kid would be sent back straight away. I don’t get it. How can he want that for himself? If it’d been me, I would jump at the chance to give myself a few happy memories.”

“Even if they were with Malfoy?” says Ron slyly.

“ _ Yes _ . Happy is happy.”

Harry sounds so determined, there is no point in arguing the finer elements. 

“Anyway, it’s lucky Dumbledore’s on-board. Snape too, and Nott. Despite Malfoy, I think this is going to be okay. As long as Malfoy keeps out of it.”

Hermione and Ron exchange glances. This doesn’t feel healthy.

But then the cat pads back to them, followed by the boy’s eyes. He staggers to his feet and draws himself up into a perfectly straight line, all stiff shoulder and anxious anticipation. Saying nothing. 

“Hey,” says Harry, beckoning him over. “Come say hi. This is Ron and Hermione, who I told you about. They’ve been helping get stuff ready for you to stay here.”

The boy drifts over, eyes wide and wary, drawn in by Harry’s request against his better judgement. 

Hermione brightens her smile and offers a hand. “Welcome,” she says. “I see you’ve already passed the first test.”

“Test?” the boy echoes.

“Yeah.” She dips to gather the ball of protesting orange fur up into her arms. “Crookshanks is very discerning. I trust his judgement of character. If he likes you, that probably means we can be friends.”

The first glimpse of a smile twitches across Draco’s lips and, when Hermione offers her hand once more, he takes it.

Harry’s right, she thinks. It is impossible to see Malfoy in this child. 

“So you’re our new dorm-mate are you?” Ron does his best to sound casual and easy, but Hermione can here to effort it takes to push years of contention away from his voice. It’s harder for him, somehow, than for her but she loves him for trying. 

She watches the boy looking at Ron, those bright grey eyes assessing, sweeping over red hair and the spattering of freckles as iconic to a Weasley as white-blonde is to a Malfoy. 

_ He knows _ , she realizes.

The boy falls back to Harry’s side, shoulders taut and tense.

Harry doesn’t get it. 

“This is Ron,” he says cheerfully. “He’s the first friend I ever made here. The first friend I ever made really. He’s the best chess player in the castle. Do you play?”

The boy gives the smallest nod, easily mistaken for a twitch. 

Ron doesn’t move either. The forced smile is dwindling and his brow has started to dip into a frown. 

Hermione reaches and grabs the boy’s hand. “Want to come see where you’ll be saying?”

She doesn’t give him a chance to hesitate, pulling him along with her up the curling stairs, leaving Harry and Ron to catch up at their leisure. 

 

*

 

“I don’t know about this, Harry,” Ron murmurs as they watch Hermione and Draco disappear. “I know you think this makes sense, but wouldn’t it make more sense for him to hang out with his own kind until he goes back?”

Harry bristles away from him. “No,” comes instantly and certainly, then, “The point is it’s different now. Trying something new. Doing the same thing twice will only yield the same results. That’s science right?”

Ron gives a baffled shrug, having very little idea what’s science and what’s not. “Anyway, I think it’s best to keep him as far from Malfoy as possible. I’m not stupid — I know he’s a prat, but, I dunno, I just thought… I thought this might…”

“Some people don’t change,” says Ron. “That’s not your problem.”

Harry makes himself nod. He knows, academically, that’s perfectly true — it  _ isn’t _ his problem. But it also feels distinctly like giving up, though he’s not entirely sure  _ what _ he’s giving up on. 

“Whatever,” he says with all the flippancy he doesn’t feel. “Not my problem. I’m doing what I’m doing and Malfoy can do as he does. Whatever what is.”

“Yeah,” says Ron, but Harry catches that sidelong look and he knows what it means.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Shut up anyway.”

 

*

 

It’s smaller than his room at home, with five huge four-poster beds, all hung with heavy red velvet and gold embroidery. Like a clock, a bit, in as much as it’s round and evenly spaced. Most of the beds are in various states of disarray, unmade and strewn with pieces of clothing and open books and sweet-wrappers. Shoes clutter the floor, nearly covering the circular rug. None of them in pairs. From one bed, a snowy owl considers him with unblinking yellow eyes. 

Draco has never seen such chaos in such a small space.  “Here’s yours.”

As though the permission is given to him, the cat hops up onto the bed and starts kneading the thick duvet. It’s the only bed with covers with straight corners one. It’s covered with clothes too, but nicely folded ones. Little ones. Ones for him. 

The girl with wild hair and kind eyes watches him expectantly, waiting for something, wanting something from him. 

“Thank you,” says Draco, not moving. 

Her blazing smile doesn’t falter, even at the awkwardness he can  _ feel _ radiating from him, heating his face. “Do you want to come see what me and Harry picked out for you? We can change things if you want to, or if they don’t fit. We had to do a bit of a guess.” Her head cocks. “You alright? I’m sure it’s a lot. There’s no hurry.”

He isn’t sure what she means, cannot quite work out what there’s no hurry for and is keenly aware that whatever it is, he isn’t doing it. It feels like a failure, and maybe there’s no hurry right now, but eventually there will be and if he doesn’t know what it is then how can he do it, no hurry or not?

He recoils back two steps as she takes a tentative one towards.

“It’s alright,” she promises immediately. “You’re okay.”

That’s pity on her face right there. Draco flushes even harder. It’s the same look and the same tone that Snape uses when he arrives on a bad day. Draco always wishes he wouldn’t. Just wants to pretend that he’s normal and everything’s fine and it doesn’t hurt every time he takes a step and he doesn’t see how ugly he looks every time he passes the mirror in the hallway. Pity isn’t practical. It’s just a reminder of bad things. 

“You know,” she says, casually like she hasn’t noticed, “Hogwarts was the first time I ever shared a room with other people. It was the part I was the most nervous about, actually. It took a while to get used to it, but you will. And I imagine Ron’s snoring will be the worst part.” She laughs. He doesn’t get the joke. “And it’s just Neville you haven’t met yet. The others are away for the holidays.”

Draco tries to find a  _ Neville  _ amongst all the names and faces at all the parties his parents toted him along to, his father pushing him towards appropriate acquaintances and warning him away from others. There is no  _ Neville _ in either category but there is a  _ Ron _ . Or at least a  _ Weasley _ . Draco doesn’t need to ask for a confirmation of what he knew the moment he saw Harry’s friend. He can feel the squeeze of his father’s fingers on his shoulder at the sight of that particular shade of red, can hear the derisive hiss as though his father were standing right beside him. A lumpy jumper knitted from thick wool draped over the bed nearest the door is enough to know for sure.  _ Harry’s best friend is a Weasley _ . 

Hermione catches him looking. “Do you know Ron?”

He nods. 

“Do you think you could be friends?”

“I’m not allowed,” he says automatically. 

“He’s not here. He won’t know.”

Hermione doesn’t understand. His father  _ always _ knows. Has spies and eyes everywhere fixed on Draco. Time and space doesn’t matter. He’ll know. 

“Do you know why you’re not allowed.”

“They’re traitors. Muggle-lovers. They want to destroy us.”

“That seems a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it?” Her voice is light but there’s a strained, brittle edge like the flash of a knife in the corner of your eye. “Why would they want that?”

“Because they’re poor.”

“I think everyone’s pretty poor compared to the Malfoys, right?”

“Yes,” Draco agrees. “But some people want to help us so they can get part of it instead of hurting us to take it all. That’s the difference.” At least, he thinks it is. His father’s never been very good at explaining the whys of things. Things just  _ are _ , and Draco can either accept that or fight about it. The choice is very simple. All he really needs to know is that, were he ever caught being friendly with a  _ Weasley _ , there would be trouble. 

Hermione perches on the bed she says is his and runs her hand down the cat’s back until it stretches out its whole long length. Her head is tilted at a particular angle to match the particular look she’s giving him, and there’s a breath before she suggests very gently, “Why don’t you make up your own mind? Why don’t you spend some time with Ron and decide for yourself. No-one has to be friends with anyone, but don’t you think it’d be a shame to lose what might be a friend without even trying.”

_Because what if my own mind’s wrong_? Draco doesn’t say. It feels like she wouldn’t understand. That she’d make arguments like Snape does, all well-meaning and trying to help, and really just confusing everything further. Theo too. They don’t understand that it’s impossible to trust his own mind, that it’s safer to just listen to Father and follow the example Draco _knows_ is safe. Safety isn’t a priority to them. They’re not the ones who have to suffer the consequences of a poor decision. 

“Did Harry tell you that Ron’s the best chess-player in the whole of Hogwarts?” 

Draco’s interest piques. “Really?”

“Mmhmm. Hogwarts’ Champion. Do you play?”

“Yes.” Draco nods eagerly and takes one tentative step closer to her, then another. “Does Harry play?”

“A little. But I think Ron would be a better opponent for you. You should ask him.”

He wants to. There’s that excited jittery feeling at the bottom of his stomach, and chess is innocuous. Even if it did get back to Father, chess is a competition. That’s allowed.

But—

“What if he doesn’t want to?”

“Why wouldn’t he want to?”

_ Because Malfoys and Weasleys aren’t friends. Both ways around.  _

Draco gives a little shrug. 

“No harm in asking,” says Hermione. “One way or another.” 

 

*

 

Harry and Ron look around from where they’re seated in front of the blazing hearth, both curled up in deep, high-backed armchairs. Draco watches Ron closely from around Hermione’s side. He does remember him, or at least he thinks he does. Not in the obvious way he remembers Theo, but Theo is timeless. Ron Weasley has never been anything more than a familiar stranger. 

Ron looks back at him with unabashed curiosity, and somehow that’s even stranger than the blatant dislike he had expected. Draco knows what it’s like to be disliked. He knows how to let it seep into him and make him harder and stronger, and make his face like Father’s and send it right back at them. This, Draco has no idea how to deal with it. 

But Harry is Harry, and Draco lets himself be drawn into that welcoming smile. 

“Think you’ll be alright here?” he asks, offering a hand. 

It’s fire-warm when Draco takes it. “Yeah.”

  
  


*

 

“I understand why they are indulging Potter,” says Pansy snippily. “And I am certainly thankful Dumbledore isn’t simply sending him back, but I do _ not _ understand why he’s staying in  _ Gryffindor Tower _ . Draco is a Slytherin. He has  _ always _ been a Slytherin. We know him best, then  _ and _ now. He should be with us.” They discuss the situation in lowered voices, the door to the Slytherin Boys’ dormitory firmly shut as Theo fills them in. He spreads his hands, feeling more apart from his house-mates than ever as he says, “I don’t think it’s a bad thing. And even if it were an option… Draco wouldn’t have. And, quite frankly, I wouldn’t trust him not to make things worse. It was… really bad, Pans. I’ve seen him angry before. I’ve seen him in  _ rages _ before, but I’ve never seen him like that. And the boy was frightened of him. Exactly the same way he is frightened of Mr Malfoy. You know that look Draco gets.”

Blaise nods gravely, but Pansy only purses her lips and crosses her arms. “Draco is not his father—”

“I’m not saying he is,” Theo snaps before they can entertain just a horrific thought. “But even so. And he’s grown attached to Potter, and Potter really seems to give a shit. If I thought he didn’t, if I didn’t trust Potter, believe me, I would’ve thought to keep him with us. But I really think this could be a good thing. And you remember what Draco was like back then. He was  _ obsessed  _ with Potter, as much as Hogwarts. This is his chance to get his wish.”

“It’s temporary though, isn’t it?” They look to Blaise, leaning against one of his bed posters. “As sweet as this is, Draco  _ will _ be returned eventually.”

“Yes,” says Theo. “Eventually.”

“You don’t think this experiment is a little short-sighted?”

“No.” With every debate, the certainty solidifies a little more. “No, I think this is a good thing. For then  _ and _ now. And maybe it’ll take a while for our Draco to see it, but it can’t be any worse than if it hadn’t happened at all. Spending Christmas here with Potter will always be better than one spent in the Manor. Always.”

There is only one person who would try to argue with that, and he is still holed up in the library. 

“I suppose we should agree as to what our role will be,” says Pansy. 

“We must support Draco,” Theo replies immediately, not without an audible note of guilt. “I know I fucked up, not telling him as soon as I realised. That’s on me. He wanted me to pick sides, but it’s not about that. They are not two completely separate people. But I do think we need to be careful. I think our Draco needs us more than the other, at least for right now, whilst this is still new.”

“And when everyone else finds out too,” says Blaise. “I suppose that’s unavoidable.”

“Definitely unavoidable. I think if we can field the worst of the whispers, Draco will be alright. I’m not saying stay away. Not even slightly. If we can show Draco that there aren’t sides—”

Pansy shakes her head with a thin smile. “You have always been the optimist, Nott. And I always knew it would be your downfall.”

“I don’t see why.” But that’s a lie. It’s true, what she says, and Theo knows he leapt body and soul right at this opportunity, regardless of odds or risk. But it’s worth it. Theo remembers so starkly Draco as he had been before Hogwarts, the anxious little thing who doubted the validity of his own shadow. He has been here, every step of the way, as Draco grew up and into himself, term by term, year by year, and he’d been so sure that Draco would make it through the other side, strong enough to stay himself. But this year that certainty is being tested. Without the assurance of Hogwarts waiting for him, Draco is crumbling. He still has strength enough to keep clawing, right up until the end, but after that… Theo would do anything that make give Draco one last boost to keep him going. Anything. Even if that anything is Harry Potter. 

 

*

 

Hermione watches Harry watching Draco hunched over the chess board, set on the low coffee table, pondering his next move with his chin propped on one fist. Whilst Harry has never been at all withdrawn in his affections, she has never seen that kind of warmth in his expression before. She might nearly call it…  _ love _ ? The boy faces the board with all the gravity of a general, determining which path across the field will result in fewest casualties on his side, taking long minutes for each move. Ron, she sees, is satisfied with his opponent. He refuses to play with her, she makes her moves too quickly for his liking and sulks when he beats her. Harry doesn’t care enough. Draco Malfoy is very nearly an even match, in skill and gravity, and his delight when he takes Ron’s queen is exuberant.  Harry grins at the shout of triumph as Draco’s knight beheads the White Queen. It’s a short one, just a moment of unfiltered joy before he remembers himself and flushes heavily, eyes a quick dart from Ron grumbling as he collects the pieces of his queen to Harry; the grin stalled as though seeking permission. 

Harry’s never breaks. “Nice,” he says approvingly. “I think the most I’ve ever got out of Ron is a Bishop.”

The boy  _ beams _ . 

“Quite the opponent,” Hermione teases. “He might even beat you.”

“Yeah, well…” Ron scowls down at the board with renewed concentration, absolutely refusing to be beaten by a kid _.  _ “I’ve gone easy on him.” Which is a bare-faced lie if Hermione’s ever heard one. 

The war is relentless, with casualties on both sides, but it’s eventually Ron who emerges victorious by the skin of his teeth. Fire blazes in both of them, the energy of the game sweet and addictive.

As soon as  _ checkmate  _ is called and the appropriate celebrations are had, followed by a cursory handshake, Draco scrambles to reset the board; any ounce of generational animosity between the Malfoys and Weasleys forgotten.  Hermione relaxes into against the arm of the sofa, book propped against her knees; one eye on the pages and one eye on the game. 

Maybe Harry’s recklessness will cause more peace than chaos after all. 

 

*

 

Piece by piece, Harry watches the boy relax into this temporary life. It’s happened  _ much _ faster than he’d expected, given the rocky start, but it is as clear as a winter morning that Draco  _ wanted _ this. As hesitant as he’s been taught to be, he wanted this with every bit of himself, and now he’s permitted to keep it — if only for a little while — he’s grabbing a hold of it with both hands.  It pulls at something in his chest and makes Harry shift.

The grin is bright and toothy, unreserved as Draco snatches a taken knight from the middle of the board; his laugh an infectious bubble when Ron’s pawn threatens his own. He is happy, Harry realises. Really truly happy.

And then he wonders what Malfoy looks like happy, and it  _ irks _ him that he doesn’t know, has never even glimpsed it.

And he wants to. 

The realisation is as heavy as a gauntlet thrown down in an impossible challenge. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apologies for the delay, I've been focusing every moment on edits for Camp NaNo this month ^^ Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you think x


	7. A Cruel, Sweet Dream

He remembers that Christmas. He remembers that Christmas _well._ He doesn’t want to.

Draco’s pen taps a fretful, tuneless beat against the page of a book he knows he needs to finish by the time the new term starts but the words are not making sense and he doesn’t even remember what subject it’s for and he just can’t _think_.

But he remembers that Christmas. 

Nine, he’d been. 

Nine had been a difficult year, he isn’t pretending it wasn’t. That’s not the point. Nine had been the beginning of a long battle between Durmstrang and Hogwarts. Nine was the year he’d really believed his father hated him. 

But he’d never looked like _that_. 

Draco stoops over his page of notes and glares at them. He doesn’t even remember writing them. 

He remembers feeling small and scared, but he had never looked like _that_. 

 _Is that what they saw when they looked at him?_  

There are only two reactions to a sight like _that_ : pity or disgust. Draco cannot decide which one is worse. No, that isn’t true. He does know. Pity. _Harry Potter’s pity_ . The thought of it makes his stomach curl. Draco isn’t stupid, he knows precisely what Harry Potter thought of him the day before yesterday, and to go from that to _this—_

Draco sees himself pressed close to Harry Potter’s side, cringing into the arm wrapped around his shoulders, and shudders. 

Snape’s pity had been bad enough, and Theo certainly had his moments, but this makes him want to throw up.

Everything about this makes him want to throw up.

Draco lays his forehead on his book and breathes. 

_In through the nose two three, out through the mouth two three…_

“Draco.”

“Fuck off, Pans.”

She doesn’t, of course. 

The grind of wood on stone, then her fingers touch his; a shell of affection as deep as the warmest hug. 

Draco squints up at her. “What?”

“Dinner time,” she says.

He groans and puts his head back down. 

“You have to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Immaterial.” 

“ _How?_ ” 

“You have to show your face.” And by her voice, he knows she knows. 

“They’re there?”

“Of course. Potter is nothing if not a perfectly responsible child-minder. The boy must eat.”

Panic threatens.

So stupid. 

Tries to swallow once, twice. Can’t.

“Pansy—”

“I know. We all do.”

“People keep saying that. It isn’t true. You don’t know. You _don’t_ know. _I_ don’t even know, so how can you—”

“And you think hiding will help?”

And her words sound like his mother’s exasperated and snappish, berating him for ever thinking he could find a place to hide where his father wouldn’t find him and _Well really, what did you expect, Draco?_

“Have they seen him yet?”

“Who?”

“Anyone?”

A beat of hesitation negates any lie she might’ve told. “Yes,” says Pansy.

Draco closes his eyes and breathes. Then, “Tell me.”

 

*

 

It feels like you could fit the whole world in the hall, like a million people are there and every pair of eyes are fixed on him, tugging at the hem of the bottle-green jumper and clutching tight to Harry Potter’s hand. Then the murmuring starts like the first distant roll of thunder, rumbling closer and closer until it’s right above him and all around him and _Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy?_

“It’s alright,” Harry Potter promises.

Draco believes him.  With Ron and Hermione on his other side, Draco lets himself be lead through the rows of people; mingling mixtures of green and red and yellow and blue, uniform broken by the holiday. He stares back, just as curiously as they stare at him, safe by Harry’s side. Usually crowds were too much and Draco’s eyes stayed fix to the ground, to his shoes polished to a bright re beside the silver tip of his father’s cane. Stay small and unnoticed. If no-one speaks to him, there’s no risk of saying the wrong thing. 

There’s no Father here, and the risk feels minimal to none. 

Harry Potter says _it’s alright_. 

As long as he holds tight to his hand, it’s safe to look. 

And there’s so _much_ to see. 

The tables aren’t as pretty as the dining-table at home — long, battered tables with long, battered benches crammed full, with copper goblets and silver platters, made for practicality en masse instead of the delicate crystal dining-ware you only have to look at too hard to break. But the windows… They’re filled with bright, colourful pictures made of glass in every shade; dazzling even though it’s dark outside. Draco likes the lady with the eagle best, looking benevolently down at them all as though she loves them. And the _stars…_ They’re just pin-pricks barely visible above the clouds swirling over the canopy of candles, but they’re so beautiful he can’t help gaping up at them. 

All the way across the hall, he catches Snape’s eye and smiles. He’s sitting next to Dumbledore’s who’s watching them too, just like everyone else, and — little by little — it doesn’t feel awful to be looked at and seen, even with the ugliness still on his cheek, even with the strangeness of him being in a different time and the questions in the air. It doesn’t feel awful, like nothing awful could even be allowed to exist here. 

Then he wonders where his other self is. The older one, and Draco searches for a glimpse of Malfoy blond. Malfoys are always so easy to find, even in a crowd.

But he isn’t here, and Draco can’t quite decide what he feels about that. 

“Here.”

Draco slides onto the bench next to Harry.

“Well, I didn’t think it was true,” the boy right across the table says, his eyes wide and a little bit scared. “You really kidnapped Malfoy?”

Harry gives a sloping shrug and a crooked smile like it’s just _one of those things._ “I suppose I did.”

“Draco, this is Neville,” says Hermione on his other side. “He’s in your dorm too.”

 _Neville_ means nothing on its own, but Draco doesn’t want to know his surname, doesn’t want to know if he’s allowed to be friends with this boy or not. _Make up your own mind_ , Hermione had said upstairs. It had felt like a big thing before, a _scary_ thing, but the more he thinks about it and the long he’s here, the more it starts to make sense. 

He thrusts out his hand. “Hullo.”

Neville looks like the hand is an angry hippogriff. His eyes slant towards Harry, Draco’s hand left hanging over the table. “Can I… talk to you?”

Draco pulls it back, face burning, chest tight, wishing and wishing he’d never tried at all. 

Harry’s silence is thick and angry, and Draco shoulders snap rigid as he slides back to stand with a curt, “Sure.” 

It’s his fault, the tension and the looks and the muttering that follows Harry and Neville away, and the attention doesn’t feel okay anymore, and he supposes he should be grateful that it wasn’t like this with Ron and Hermione because that’s what he expected. 

“Don’t take it to heart.”

Draco twists to see Hermione looking at him, somehow knowing what he’s thinking, somehow making it okay. 

“I suspect it’ll take Neville a little longer to come around to this idea,” she says. “But he will.”

“The idea of me?”

She nods. “The idea of Slytherins and Gryffindors as friends.”

“But I’m not—”

“But in the future you are. And it’s going to be hard for a lot of people to separate you and your future counterpart.”

Draco makes himself nod and tries not to suck his lip. 

The older him has more in common with Father than with him, as far as he can see. 

“Any room over here?” an overtly cheerful voice asks.

Draco grins in relief. “Theo!” And not just Theo either, though Blaise looks more different than Theo does, all straight lines and sharp angles, and _so serious_. Blaise doesn’t smile. Isn’t sure what to make of him. 

Theo pretends not to notice, ruffling Draco’s hair and sliding in between him and Ron, ignoring the protest. “So how’s it going up there in Gryffindor-land? Thought I’d come check in on you. And—” He dips his head up at Blaise who remains stubbornly standing, “—he didn’t want to venture over alone to say hi.”

“Hi,” says Draco.

“He should be with us,” says Blaise, clipped, at Theo. “We’re his people. Not…this lot.”

Hermione and Ron both whip around with identical snarls. 

Theo groans. “Stop it. I told you not to do this.”

“Can you not hear what people are saying?” 

“To hell with what people are saying—”

“All very noble, I’m sure, but _listen_.”

The table goes quiet as they do as Blaise says.

Draco holds his breath, wishing Harry was here. 

All the voices are like an ocean, moving in a single body, indiscernible from each other. Until you listen and pick them out like threads from a chewed cuff. 

He cringes. 

It’s like the gossip at parties, hushed and smug. Knowledge is power, and everyone knows who pays the most.

Blaise lowers his voice even further. “I am not trying to be your enemy,” he says to Ron and Hermione. “As little as I agree with any of this, we are on the same side for the same sake.” He nods to Draco. “Lucius Malfoy has spies _everywhere—”_

“Father knows about me?”

“Stop it,” Theo growls, glaring up at Blaise. “You’re being paranoid. If he knew, he would be here.”

“And if he doesn’t know now, he will by the end of the day. World will spread that he son is sitting at the Gryffindor table wearing a Weasley jumper, buddying up with a Mudblood—”

The buzzing in Draco’s head is so loud he’s barely aware of Ron’s outrage as he jumps to his feet and shoves Blaise back and demands satisfaction or of Theo pushing between them or Harry called back by the commotion.

“You know I’m right. Look, it’ll be bad enough just him being here. The least we can do is keep him with us and—”

“In line?”

Blaise’s mouth tightened. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“But it is what you meant.”

“If you want to protect him, you will let us take over and limit the amount of trouble he’ll be in when the time comes. Nott, tell him. If his father finds him here, wouldn’t it be better for Draco if he sees him with us than consorting with, well—”

“I’m not interested in catering to his dad’s bullshit, Zabini,” says Harry firmly. “We’re not just holding him until he’s picked up. This isn’t _limbo_!”

“Then what _is_ it?, Potter?”

“A gift,” says Harry. “This is a gift, and I’m not going to let you or anyone else — including Lucius fucking Malfoy — ruin it for him. _Do you understand_?”

Draco steals a look up at his friend, hoping and hoping for confirmation that Harry’s right and not just talking nonsense because it feels too big and too much to believe in by himself and Blaise is always the sensible one and if Harry can convince him, then—

But Blaise isn’t looking at Harry. He isn’t even looking at him.

Blaise’s dark eyes are fixed at a point past Harry’s shoulder.

Draco twists around and catches his own eye across the hall.

 

*

 

If he heard it, they all heard it.  Every single person dining in this hall.

Draco’s face blazes with humiliation.

His first though: _No-one speaks about his father like that_.

His second: _No-one speaks about him like that_ , 

Not so loudly. The little defense anyone’s ever offered has only ever been whispered and private. Discrete. Not shouted out for all to hear. Not with such… _fierce_ intention. 

And the boy is in the middle of it, of course, sitting there between Granger and Theo and looking like a Weasley, and all of them acting as though this is normal, as though they belong there together, as though this isn’t the most wrong, the most _unnatural—_

“Shall we join them?” Pansy murmurs at his side, finding his fingers with hers. 

He snatches back his hand and turns on his heel.

“You can,” he snaps, stalking away. 

But running doesn’t help. There’s nowhere he can go because he _remembers_ . He remembers being nine and frightened and hurting, and worst, he remembers the strange newness of warmth and kindness and being _here_ . The memories that didn’t exist before, the ones that are being crafted right now in the Great Hall, sitting small between Theo and Hermione as Potter announces his priorities to the world — priorities that give no consideration to Lucius Malfoy, that spare no thought at all for the man who is the closest thing to _god_ —and feeling _safe_. And feeling lov—

_No._

Fingernails rip hard down his arms. 

He will stay in the present. The _real_ present. 

This isn’t real. None of this is real. 

Just a cruel, sweet dream he will not be stupid enough to be tricked by. 

He would rip out his own heart if he could, to stop the ridiculous thump of longing that will not listen to reason. 

Maybe he should go home, return to his parents and reality and just get on with getting on. To hell with his N.E.W.Ts, because evidently he does not need them to run the Malfoy Estate. Evidently, every year he’s spent in this place has been an enormous waste of time and maybe the sooner he’s out of here the better. Maybe his father is right. Maybe his father was always right. 

The third from bottom stair catches him. 

There is no-one here to see him, they are all in the Hall watching Potter.

Draco gathers his knees up and cries.

_I feel so small._

 

*

 

Draco’s breath catches in his throat, sadness a strange wave through him that he doesn’t understand. Blaise has reluctantly taken a seat with them, prepared to listen instead of arguing, Pansy’s here too and she’s so beautiful and so much more herself than Draco remembers. And Harry and Theo are with him, and everything is so much better than fine because even though there’s whispering and looks, he has never had so many people who love him.  But it feels like sad. 

_And lonely?_

He doesn’t know he’s on his feet until Harry stops in the middle of his serious debate with Blaise over the ridiculous Quidditch laws to look up at him. “Alright?”

“Um…” But Harry doesn’t seem like the right person to ask for this, the last altercation still a blaze in his mind. “Theo?”

“Yeah?”

And he’s not entirely sure how to ask anyway, or even how to articulate the feeling in his chest. “I was… Would you mind…”

But Theo knows immediately. “You want to go find him?”

Draco nods. 

“We’ll be careful,” Theo promises when Harry starts to protest. “I’ll look after him.”

He doesn’t know the castle yet, but he knows exactly where he’ll be. Theo follows nearly trotting to keep up as Draco turns through unfamiliar corridors and strange staircases until he finds himself sitting on the bottom of one of them, head in his hands. 

Theo lingers behind, silent. This isn’t for him. 

The banister is smooth beneath Draco’s fingers, polished from thousands of hands; the stairs are solid and do not betray him. He slips silently down the last few steps and sits by himself. 

The older him doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything, makes no indication that he’s aware of the company save for the subtle stiffening of his shoulders. 

Finally, muffled, he says, “You shouldn’t be here, you know.”

“I know,” Draco replies. “But I am.”

“You are undoing everything I have worked for. You are ruining _everything_.”

Each word is brittle, each one sharper than the last, like the snap of a belt in his ears.

Draco bears it, holding tight to the lip of the stair. He’s weathered worse than this before. 

“You are stupid if you think this could ever end well,” the other Draco says. “You are stupider than I ever thought you could be. Stupider than Father says you are  if you think Potter will save you. You’re just a toy to him. _Temporary_ . You know that, don’t you? You mean _nothing_ to him. Less than nothing. He hates you. He will always hate you. I know. I’ve lived it. The only person who can protect you is yourself, so _do_ it.”

“Malfoy—”

“Fuck _off_ , Potter.” He staggers up and wheels to face Harry standing by Theo at the top of the stairs, every bit of him a hard defense against this attack.

Because that’s what he thinks this is, Draco realises, rising slowly in the middle of them all. A war on all sides with no-one on his. 

Theo takes the stairs slowly, hands up as though in surrender. “Draco, listen—”

“Stay away from me, Nott. All of you, just—” He freezes when Draco steps to his side and takes his hand like Harry had taken his. There are marks up his arm. A rash of scratches.. Draco knows that trick, knows what it means. He’s hoped he’d stop feeling like that by the time he grew up. 

Held on a breath, they all stay still. 

 

*

 

 _I let you down_ , Draco doesn’t say, the little hand warm and real and gripping his. _I couldn’t save us._ Whatever peculiar dream this is, he knows he does not deserve his younger-self’s compassion. Not when he knows what is coming. Not when they are both still stuck on this inevitable journey hurtling towards their inevitable end. This boy is as much his future as his past, the son he will invariably ruin because he doesn’t know what else to do, and it will all go round and around, again and again, and _I tried_. 

And he does _not_ want Harry-fucking-Potter witnessing this. 

“Let me _go_ ,” Draco snarls snatching his hand back. 

The boy cringes.

Draco runs. 

And Harry goes after him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone reading, and everyone taking a moment to leave me a note <3 As y'all can probably tell, my fic writing is sitting on the backburner for a while. Exciting things are happening in my original writing world so that's my focus for the next few months. Be assured, this fic and The Sum of Promises Kept will be finished! But right now fic is *very* much a hobby. Love y'all <3


	8. Here At the Top of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is from a track from the Hunchback of Notre-Dame Broadway Soundtrack that reeaally reminds me of this chapter. I hope you listen to it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter ^^

 

“If you come any closer,” says Malfoy matter-of-factly, “I’ll jump.”

Harry stoops to lay down his firebolt beside the sleek Nimbus 2001, as carefully as though he were laying down his wand. Malfoy had taken to the sky as soon as he could — no doubt thinking the greater the height the better his chances of escape. He had forgotten that Harry often seeks refuge up here too.  Harry does not, however, come any closer. “It’s just me,” he says.

A low chuckle and Malfoy kicks his heels against the gutter, perched on the edge of the slanting room of one of Hogwarts’ higher turrets, hair mussed in the breeze in a way it never is on the ground. “You think you’re not the person I least want to see?”

“No. I don’t.”

Harry watches Malfoy’s head drop, and listens to the sigh before it’s snatched by the wind. The blonde hair curls at the nape of his neck. Harry thinks of the boy down below, free finally from the rigid constraints of the Malfoy image. There is only a shadow of that boy in this one, but the shadow is there still. Not yet smothered out of existence. 

Harry’s hand goes to his pocket and his fingers graze the delicate shell of a wing. The dragon clings to him as he brings it out, then flies as soft as a butterfly to land upon Malfoy’s knee. 

“Do you remember?” Harry asks.

Malfoy’s head is dipped to the little dragon then, almost cautiously, he lets it climb onto his hand. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. No-one should grow up like that.”

A brittle laugh like a shard of ice. “Even me?”

“Do you really hate yourself so much to think you deserve that?”

Malfoy says nothing. The dragon chirps. 

“You know what I’ve learnt these last couple of days?” Harry pushes on, resisting the urge to close in. “You have so many people who love you and want good things for you. The only person holding you back from any of it is you. Why?”

Silence, still. Malfoy’s body is as taut as the stone he sits on. 

Harry takes one step closer, then one more. “What’s the difference,” he asks, “between you and the kid down there? How can he have so much hope and you so little? What changed?”

The softest brush of voice, though not enough to make out the words.

“What?”

“I grew up,” Malfoy snapped, twisting — finally — to face Harry. His face is a desperate, defensive snarl, tear-tracks pink down his cheeks. “I  _ learnt _ , despite everyone trying to tell me differently, trying to make me ignore the inevitable. I  _ tried _ that. I wanted to. Who wouldn’t prefer the happily-ever-after in a child’s fairy-tale? I was stupid —  _ he  _ was stupid — believing it could ever be real. But I learnt. I accepted it. And I thought I’d made them accept it too.”

“Your friends?”

Malfoy nods turning back to the landscape, the dark dip of the Black Lake spread out beneath them. “I know they mean well, especially Theo, but I thought… I thought we’d got passed this. You bringing… bringing the past back, they are old battles we’ve been fighting for years, and I’m  _ tired _ of them, Potter. They were supposed to be over. I don’t have time to fight them again.”

“So don’t. Don’t fight them.”

Malfoy pulls his legs up and hides his face. “Stop pretending to know me.”

“Stop pretending I don’t.”

“It’s easy for you. You won all your battles. You’re the hero of your own story.”

“Everyone’s the hero of their own story.”

“No.” Malfoy shakes his head vehemently. “That isn’t true. I know what he sees when he looks at me. I let him down. I tried and I failed, and all the battles I fought were for nothing.”

“Is that what you think he thinks?”

“He is me, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“It wasn’t me who managed to get him to Hogwarts, Malfoy. That was you. And by all accounts, it wasn’t easy. If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t be here.  _ You _ wouldn’t be here. You did that. You saved him in a much more real way than I did.”

There’s a click of a nail against a tooth and the stifled hitch of a breath. Harry crosses the last distance and sits down on the edge of the roof. Malfoy’s whole face is screwed up in a valiant war against tears. 

“You’re his hero,” Harry pushes. “You’re right — what I did, it’s temporary. He knows that, I know that. But you’re his real hope. He told me he didn’t think he’d ever get here. He wants to know how you did it. He needs to know it’s possible. Because it is. You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Not for much longer.”

“And what then?”

“And then I return to the reality I’ve been doing my best to avoid for seven years.”

“Is that all Hogwarts has been to you? A distraction?”

“Of course.” He says it so simply, so certainly, Harry’s chest _aches_. How this wonderful, magical _sanctuary_ can be reduced down so placidly to next to nothing, when he saw for himself the wonder in little Draco’s eyes, mouth an awed ‘O’, as all children’s are when they step foot into the castle for the first time.

_ A distraction _ .

Harry cannot think of anything sadder. 

“I don’t believe you.”

Malfoy slants him a glare.

Harry glares right back and repeats, “I don’t believe you. No-one who cared that little would work so hard. You’ve been on Hermione’s tail from the beginning. I know your Quidditch routine. You train harder and longer than anyone else on any other team. You’re an dick, but you’re the most dedicated dick I’ve ever known. You give too many shits to just see this place as a distraction. You don’t fool me, Malfoy.”

“What do you want from me?” Malfoy tosses back. “For me to tell you how little of me will be left once I leave this place? How it feels like my life as my own is about to end? How I really believed if I could beat Granger, if I could beat  _ you _ , if I could make Slytherin win the House Cup just  _ once _ , then maybe it would prove something to my parents and maybe they would relent and let me live my own life? How I was too stupid for too long, and I should’ve been smarter, I should’ve  _ listened _ and then  _ maybe  _ it wouldn’t hurt quite so  _ fucking _ much? Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want me to tell him? Because that’s the truth of it.” Malfoy angles away with a shake of his head and the twist of a smile. “Hogwarts has just been an intermission. That’s all. Now I have to go home and perform.”

“And what then?”

“And then Father teaches me how to run the estate, how to maintain his influence. I get married to a girl I’m fairly sure Mother’s already picked out. I have a child and I’ll teach him how to uphold the family honor, and I’ll break down anyone who stands in my way because  _ that’s _ what we do.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Of course it’s not what I fucking want.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve never been permitted options. Not real one. Everything else is an unknown that I don’t know how to achieve. At least this is a certainty. There’s something to be said for that, isn’t there?” A quick sideways glance, and Harry realises it’s a genuine question.  _ Better the threat you know than the one you don’t _ . Malfoy’s gaze drops. “Anything else would simply be another fight I could never win. That’s all. I’m rebelling just by being here, and I know I’ll be punished for it when Hogwarts spits me out at the end of the year. I know I’ll pay heavily for it, just as I paid heavily to be here at all. Anything else would be… suicide.” He is leaning a little too far for comfort. Harry wants to grab him and pull him back and shake sense to him and say,  _ this isn’t how it has to be! There has to be something else! Something worth fighting for! _

He has never had anything resembling affection for Draco Malfoy, as much as he cares for the boy below, but no-one deserves to feel like their life is a prison sentence. Everyone has the right to at least a little piece of happiness. Even Malfoy. And there’s something else to him now, up here on the roof with no-one else to see, and Harry squints to try to find it, to put a word to it. He can’t. Not yet. 

“I know this is temporary,” says Harry. “And he does too. And that’s okay, you know? Even it’s limited, there is still time. You might as well enjoy it. Don’t think about the future. Just enjoy the now.”

“Easy for you to say—”

“Why easy for me?” Harry demands. “You think I’m excited to leave this place and work out what the fuck I’m going to do and who the fuck I’m going to be? Yeah, I’m not the heir to my family’s ridiculous fortune — well, I suppose yes I am, but without all the ties and conditions — but it’s still fucking  _ terrifying _ . Hogwarts is a bubble. I get that. And yeah, an intermission is a good analogy. But let’s just love it while we’re here. That’s what I want for him. And you, Malfoy. Otherwise, what’s the point of being here at all?”

“I love this place,” Malfoy whispers, far more to himself than to Harry, looking out across the landscape with a fondness Harry’s never seen in him before. “When I was little, I dreamed of Hogwarts. I wanted to be here so  _ badly _ . All my friends, all my peers, they all knew they were coming. They’d play games, pretending to be here, getting sorted, playing inter-house Quidditch. It was the one thing  _ everyone _ had in common, except for me. I was already… strange, in their eyes. My parents didn’t let me attend parties until I was older. Everyone already had their little groups, and I’d never learned how to talk to people. And, of course, my family’s reputation far preceded me. And I wasn’t going to Hogwarts. I was lucky — Theo has never had any sense of propriety. He didn’t care who I was and refused to be intimidated by the Malfoy name. He was friends with Pansy and Blaise, and let me join them. And they  _ all _ talked about Hogwarts. All the damn time. It sounded like the most magical, most wonderful place in the world, where I’d be welcomed and liked, and my name wouldn’t matter. It was a dream. Just a dream.”

“What happened?” Harry asks softly. “How did you make your parents change their minds?”

Malfoy gives a breathy laugh. “It was the most stupid, most reckless thing I have ever done. Durmstrang admissions is exam based. I’d studied under Father for years, ensuring I knew it all. I knew I wasn’t going to fail. I… cheated. With the papers laid out before me, I decided I wasn’t going. I couldn’t go. I  _ had _ to get to Hogwarts one way or another. So I cheated. The charmed quills don’t work the other way, you know. I thought I was safe. When the results came back, I’d convince Father that’d I’d only missed by a mark or two. So sad, so close, oh well. I didn’t think he’d request a copy of the transcripts.”

“Oh, shit…”

“Indeed. I was stupid to underestimate him. I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistakes twice.”

“But you won, didn’t you?” says Harry tentatively. “You got what you wanted?”

“The summer following first year were the worst months of my life,” says Malfoy without a trace of melodrama, simply speaking as fact. “Do with that as you will, Potter.”

Harry winces. “I’m sorry—”

“Why?” Malfoy snaps with a glare. “What difference does it make?”

He doesn’t have an answer in words, but feels it deep in his gut. It  _ would’ve _ made a difference. It  _ has _ made a difference. Instead, Harry asks, “Why do you hate him so much?”

“Because he is everything I’ve fought to forget. When you’re… _ me _ , you rationalize things away. It is the way it is. You might not like it, but tough luck. It’s hard but it’s tolerable. You survive, you learn, you improve. I can justify anything, but seeing him, I—” Malfoy’s words stutter in his throat. “I, ah, I see myself how others must’ve seen me. How they see me now. It’s unacceptable. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. I didn’t realise I was so…”

“Frightened?”

“Small. Impermissibly so. It’s… It’s no wonder Father—”

“You don’t have to do that up here.”

“What?”

“Justify his behaviour.”

Malfoy cringes —  _ actually _ cringes — gritting his teeth and screwing up his face, curling down to hide in his arms. 

“Malfoy—”

“Stop.”

“Alright.”

There’s time, Harry thinks —  _ hopes —  _ If there’s time for the little one, there’s time for this one too. 

They sit together on the roof, in a strange silence that isn’t quite uncomfortable. Not waiting, not fighting, just being. It’ll be different when they go back down, Harry knows. Back to normal. He almost doesn’t want to. 

Then Malfoy says, tentatively, “He seems… happy.”

“He’s getting there.”

“You’re very good. With children, I mean.”

“I know what it’s like to be afraid. That’s why I did it. I saw a lot of me in him. In you. I know what I’d want. And he’s a…good kid.”

“That surprises you.”

“There’s nothing about the last few days that doesn’t surprise me.”

And then Malfoy says, “He loves you,” and it’s the strangest punch to the gut Harry’s ever had. “I can tell. It doesn’t happen often. He trusts you. Well done.”

The delivery is awkward but sincere, and perhaps made all the more awkward for its sincerity. 

Harry thinks of how easily and willingly the boy latched onto him, the quick little glances seeking assurance, the tight grip on his sleeve, in his hand. He thinks of how much he wants to  _ give _ him.

“You get out what you put in,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s it.”

A breathy sound that Harry realises is a laugh. “You don’t even know what you’ve done.”

And before Harry can question him further, Malfoy is up on his feet. As close to the edge as he is, Malfoy’s balance is impeccable, unconcerned with the sheer drop before him. For a nasty moment, Harry’s stomach lurches, certain that Malfoy will make good on the initial threat and jump. But he doesn’t. He simply turns and steps lightly up the shingles, past Harry, dipping to collect his broom. His face is perfectly placid, as though nothing that has happened happened at all, as though they are not them, on the roof together, and there isn’t a boy down below, worrying for them both. 

As soon as their feet touch the ground, everything will go back to they way it was.

And Harry realises abruptly that that isn’t what he wants.

“Draco.”

The other boy freezes, his whole body rigid.

Harry takes his opportunity, picking himself up with far less grace.

“Let’s do something,” he says. “The three of us. When you were that age, what did you love doing the most?”

“Flying.” The answer comes without hesitation, on a breath caught in the wind. “I’ve always… loved flying.”

It’s so simple, so childish, Harry grins. “Then let’s go. I want to show him the Quidditch Pitch. Come with us.”

He wants to. Harry can see the wanting through every line on Malfoy’s back. And he can see the fear too. The same fear he recognizes in the boy, more complex than the fear of danger, of the threat of his father. The fear of compassion and kindness. And love. To Draco Malfoy, they present just as acute a danger as a belt in his father’s hand. 

“You don’t have to,” Harry pushes on. “You don’t have to do anything. Obviously. But I want you to know that you’re welcome. Any time.”

“Tomorrow.” Malfoy turns just fractionally, just enough to look back and meet Harry’s eye. “I’ve always… preferred early mornings. When it’s cooler and there are… fewer people.”

The words are stilted as though he doesn’t know how to speak in this manner to this person, and it isn’t quite  _ Malfoy _ who’s speaking. It is—intrinsically— _ Draco _ . 

“Meet you on the pitch at nine?”

“Seven.”

“Seven, then.” 

 

* * *

Theo lost all feeling in his fingers at least half an hour ago, the boy’s grip on his hand getting steadily tighter as they stand together outside the castle. Draco’s head has been craned up to where Harry had disappeared into the sky, teeth worrying his lip until Theo nudged him gently.

“You’ll bite right through it if you keep doing that.”

He recognized the habit. It only came out in moments of extreme duress. 

“They’ll be alright you know. They’ll come down soon.”

The boy nods absently, not really hearing him. The only thing that will comfort him, Theo knows, is Harry Potter.  “Theo?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t think he’d… You don’t think he’d  _ hurt _ Harry, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

The anxious little face turns up towards him. “But you can’t be sure?”

Theo tries  _ really _ hard not to imagine Draco shoving Potter right off the roof. It’s too easy, too believable. 

The boy sighs heavily and looks up to the sky once more, shielding his eyes. “Why’s he so angry?”

“It’s a tough time right now. That’s all.”

“So he’s not like that normally?”

Theo can’t suppress a grimace. _No_ , he wants to say. _Normally he’s sunshine and daises_ , but even the Draco _he_ knows — the one who can relax and laugh and share a joke — even that Draco is as heavy as lead and as brittle as crystal, as quick to anger as—

“It’s been a tough time,” is all he can manage.

“Why?” There’s the first sharp note of panic edging the boy’s voice, fully aware that this is his future. “He’s here. At Hogwarts. I don’t understand.”

Because, of course, Hogwarts is still Heaven in his mind.

Theo smiles and slips an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Coming here was the best thing he’s ever done, but it isn’t forever. It’s just school. And it’s nearly over. You know, better than anyone, how much he wants to be here.”

“Yes.” It’s half a syllable. Barely. 

Theo hugs him a little tighter. “Enjoy it. Enjoy this place. As much as you can for as long as you can. That’s what I’ve been telling him.”

“What happens after?”

“What happens after Hogwarts?”

“Yes. For me. What happens?”

“I don’t know,” Theo tells him, hoping it’s true, hoping he  _ doesn’t _ know. Draco is so determined that the future is set in stone — unmoveable, inescapable — he’s ready to walk willingly into the maw. But there is still hope, as little and as distant as it might be, that Theo can still cling to even if Draco can’t. He wants to give it to this boy now, with the hope that he will be able to keep the light flickering for just a while longer. Long enough, maybe, to make the difference Draco so desperately needs. “The hardest part was getting here,” Theo murmurs, peering up through the clouds threatening snow. “And you did that. You can do anything you want, Draco.”

It isn’t false encouragement. Theo means it with every bit of himself. Draco believed it once, bolstered by the giddy excitement of rare victory. But, little by little, Lucius Malfoy eroded that belief right back down to less than nothing. Theo needs Draco to believe in it once more, one way or another.

“Look!” A tug to the sleeve and a finger pointed to the sky, to a darkening in the clouds as two shapes dip down through the snow. 

He wants to run to Potter so badly, Theo can feel the longing energy trembling through the boy, but the presence of his older counterpart keeps him pressed to Theo’s side.

Potter grins, rubbing snow from his glasses, and it’s enough to make Draco let go of Theo’s hand and run to him.

It’s baffling, watching them together, Theo thinks. Such ease, such warmth.

Then he glances up to the Draco he’s known for twelve of their seventeen years, watching himself with Harry Potter, and Theo knows he sees it too.

There is nothing but love there. 

And Draco isn’t fighting it anymore. At least, not as viciously as he had been the last time he was on the ground. He is still wary, but there’s a curiosity there now as he bears witness to the giggle elicited from the boy as Potter tousles his hair.  “Are you friends now?” the boy asks. 

It is the older Draco who answers, with one tentative step forwards. “I believe,” he says, “it may be a possibility.”

The boy’s face splits into the biggest grin Theo has ever seen on any iteration of Draco Malfoy. 

 


	9. Flying High

Draco rises before dawn and moves with practised silence in the darkness, finding the clothes he set out for himself last night and dressing without the need for light. He has always been an early riser, and his dorm-mates have always  _ not _ . Theo’s grumbling for the rest of the day isn’t worth the wand-light, and Blaise is even worse. 

Besides, Draco prefers to have the world to himself for a few sweet hours. He is not, nor has ever been, an extrovert. Much to his father’s frustration. People over-complicate things, it’s just the nature of the thing. Draco struggles enough to work out his own thoughts without having endless, unwarranted opinion shoved into his ears. Sometimes it’s just nice to be  _ quiet _ . 

It’s a character flaw, he knows this. Knows also that he’s going to have to get over it sooner than later. The Malfoy legacy is built upon the shoulders of others. It isn’t appropriate to do it all himself. It isn’t possible. There are connections to make and maintain, and relationships to build to ensure the endurance of the family, and it’s all other people other people  _ other people _ , and the more Draco thinks of it, the harder it is to breathe.

He sits on the edge of his bed and stoops to tie his laces.

Flying will help.

Flying always helps. 

 

* * *

 

Draco wakes slowly and strangely, but good strange, in a bed that’s comfier than the hospital one and warmer than the one at the Manor. He slept  _ well _ , and that’s a strange, nice feeling. He clings to it in the darkness, surrounded by the soft sounds of the others — Harry and Ron, and Neville who he’s not sure about yet — and it stays, curled up like a cat around his body. Draco smiles. 

This is where he’s meant to be. He’s never felt like that before. He’s always felt a little like he’s supposed to apologize for existing, as though he hasn’t earned the space he takes up, as though anyone who has anything to do with him is sincerely regretting it but are too polite to say anything. 

Not here. 

It’s like there was a him-shaped space waiting for him to fill it.

He wiggles out a toe from beneath the heavy duvet and touches cool air. Not cold, just cool. It’ll be cold outside though, in the air. 

A thrill thrums through him when he thinks about flying, and he wants to go  _ now _ . Before now! 

Holding on tight to the duvet, Draco wriggles to sit p, forcing his eyes to adjust to the low light enough to see into the bed next to his. Harry Potter is snoring deeply. He looks like he’s not going to wake for too many hours. Draco wonders what time it is. 

He slips silently out of bed and across the circular room to the window. There’s light on the horizon, the first flicker of day on the other side of the lake. He’s usually up by now, preferring to have a little time for himself before Father takes control of the day. It’s the best time of morning, when the house is at peace, and all the moves are the house-elves focused on their work without their master bearing down on them. Everyone is happiest before Lucius and Narcissa rise, and Draco has learnt to love that time too. 

And he’s  _ itching _ to get up and make the most of the day and being here and  _ flying _ . 

“Harry?” He doesn’t  _ really _ want to wake Harry up, it isn’t  _ really _ fair, but he needs to get up and be up  _ now _ . 

Harry groans and turns over, not waking up but frowning hard.

Draco tries harder. “Harry?”

“Wassit?”

“I’m going to get up, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles, and Draco isn’t a hundred percent sure if it’s real talking or sleep talking, but he’ll take it anyway.

Draco dresses in the dark, the woolen jumper filling his hair with prickling static, and slips out of the Gryffindor dormitory, into Hogwarts. 

 

* * *

 

He assumes he’ll meet Potter and the boy on the pitch, though the plans they made were intangible at best. Draco finds himself lingering in the entrance hall, not quite sure of himself and hating it. It’s early enough that he could get some decent practise in before the others even wake up, and even though there are only a handful of matches left in his Quidditch career, he knows he needs to keep his hand in and make the most of his time. His father had been on the Slytherin team back in the day. Draco has never seen his father so much as touch a broomstick. It’s funny, really, as dedicated as he is to Draco’s performance and the insistence that Slytherin  _ always _ win, to the extent of buying a whole fleet of broomsticks, in private, in reality, Quidditch is nothing but a childish hobby. Worthless. A waste of time and energy. 

it’s the discrepancy that frustrates Draco the most. The years of focused persistence, following his father’s orders to be the best and do better  _ better better _ , only to have the whole construction collapse on top of him, to be told ‘there’s no use in any of it’. Not potions, not arithmancy, certainly not Quidditch. The real education starts the moment he sheds his school-tie in favor of the signet ring waiting for him on his father’s desk. 

Make the most of it now. 

Draco starts purposefully towards the double doors leading out into the dawn, but the softest sound makes him pause, makes him turn.

His nine-year-old self stops half-way down the staircase, one hand gripping the bannister, staring right back at him, wanting and doubting, lips parted around words he isn’t sure about.

Draco knows that feeling.

The boys hair is a wild, static disaster, clashing enormously with the brightest orange jumper Draco has ever seen. He didn’t look any better yesterday, but it’s still a shock. To see him —  _ him _ — standing there, looking like that. The strangest mirror. 

Because it  _ is _ him, no matter how hard and desperately he has tried to deny it. 

Draco faces himself.

“Good morning.”

“Hello,” the boy whispers.

“Are you alone?”

He nods. “Harry’s still asleep.”

Draco scoffs. “Potter has always—” And he’s about to make a derisive comment about laziness and lack of dedication, but this time he doesn’t. Can’t. Something makes him swallow the remark, and it isn’t just the look on the boy’s face.  _ You get out what you put in, _ Potter said.  _ That’s it. _

As simple as that. 

Draco clears his throat. “I have never met anyone who rises as early as we do. It isn’t a bad thing.”

A flick of a smile catches the boy’s mouth. “I couldn’t wait anymore.”

“I remember feeling that way when I first arrived. I suppose I still do. A little.”

The boy nods vigorously. “It’s like… it’s like a dream. I’m afraid of waking. Of wasting it.” A flush creeps into his pale face, and grey eyes drop to the stair he stands on. 

“You’ll come back,” Draco finds himself saying, finds himself taking one step closer, than another. “It isn’t too long now. Only a couple of years.”

It’s the old platitude he knows he stopped believing long before he was nine years old. The boy’s lip disappears between his teeth and his forehead bunches in a frown.

“Would you like to walk with me?” Draco asks. “Potter can meet us there. Though, of course, if you’d prefer to wait—”

“No,” says the boy. “Please. I’d like it.”

 

* * *

 

His older self doesn’t offer a hand when Draco approaches as Harry would, or slip a warm arm around his shoulders, but they walk side by side into the outside, the same gait, the same motion of their arms, the same slight stiffness in their shoulders. Draco notices them all. Down the smallest degree of awkwardness between them. It feels unbroachable. 

He winces as they step into the outside air, so sharp it stings the tip of his noses and he buries his chin deep down into the collar of the jumper that had been too warm three seconds ago. 

Something soft loops around his neck. A scarf, warm and worn.

The movement is so quick they’re back to normal like it’d never happened before Draco can catch his own eye.

“Thank you.”

“Yes,” says the other one. And, “It’s much colder here than at home.”

“Outside.”

The laugh puffs like a dragon’s breath. “Yes. Outside.”

“How’d you…” Draco licks his frozen lips. “How’d you get to be here? How’d you get Father to—” He stops at an expression he knows so well he can feel it on his own face and something settles hard and heavy in the pit of his stomach. But he wants it, so  _ badly _ it’s an ache through his body sharper than the cold, and to get it, he has to know  _ how _ . 

But— “It wasn’t worth it.” And— “Don’t… Don’t do what I did.”

Draco withdraws into himself. “I-I don’t understand. You’re here, you’re—”

“He has never forgiven me. Not in seven years. And when I go home this summer—” The breath shudders like it hurts. Draco feels it in himself. “You can— You  _ should _ make it easy for yourself.”

“Don’t you like it here?”

“I do. Of course I do. But it’s as you said — it’s just a dream. Just temporary. Time to wake up soon. Better to…to not have it to miss in the first place.”

Draco isn’t sure about that. “I’d rather be here than not.”

“That’s because you don’t know the cost,” the other one snaps, sounding like Father so much that Draco’s whole body freezes up hard. His vision blurs and his throat stoppers up, and he can feel the older one coming back to where he’s stopped in the snow and his hands are trying to go up to protect his face even though he knows they’ll just be slapped down and—

“I’m sorry.” They are little words, nearly lost in the wind, as trembling as a breeze but just as true. “I’m sorry.”

It’s an effort to look up. He can only just about manage it with his eyes, head dipped down. 

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” the other Draco says stiltedly. “I do not want to hurt you. I just…I know. I know what’s going to happen. And I know what it’ll do to you. And I…I-I don’t…Nothing can stop Father. Not Hogwarts, not Harry Potter. They cannot save you. Father always gets his way, at one point or another. The best you can do is to not incur his temper. Protect yourself. As best as you can.”

_ As little as it is. _

“ _ Please _ .” 

He can’t help or stop the tears that catch him off guard. They slam through him like a wave, and he stumbles where he stands. It feels like grieving. Like death. His own. And he can’t even shut his mouth or hide his face. Just stands there and cries. 

 

* * *

 

“What did you do?” Potter snaps, striding through the snow towards them as though summoned. Draco steps back from the crying boy, feeling the same choking stickiness in his throat and the burning in his own eyes, like the two of them are inexplicably linked. Maybe not so inexplicably. 

Potter goes to his knees in the snow besides the boy whose hands are covering his face and doing a worthless job of muffling the tears, and glares up at Draco to repeat, “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything. We were having a…conversation.”

“What about?”

Draco’s face flushes hot in the chill.  _ About how pointless it all his _ , he cannot find the words to admit, and he’s left faltering as Potter pulls the boy to him, and the boy lets him, looping his arms around Potter’s neck as though the instinct to do so was always there. And it isn’t quite jealousy. Not quite. More of a…a hole inside him that Draco had no idea existed until this moment.

Because everything the boy feels, he feels too. They are one and the same. But the warmth and the reassurance granted to the child is not available to him. He missed his chance, if he ever had it at all. 

Potter’s gaze catches his, and Draco looks quickly away, arms dipping tight around himself. It’s freezing out here. Flying was a terrible suggestion. He should go back inside and find a place by the fire and catch up with his reading and—

“Malfoy.”

A touch to his wrist startles him, and the embrace comes too quickly to resist it.

He doesn’t want to resist it. 

It’s brief and awkward, but warm and enough to fill the hole, and when it’s broken, it lingers.

Potter steps back, watching him carefully as though checking for something, waiting for something. Behind him, the boy watches too, grey eyes flicking from Draco to Harry and back again. Draco doesn’t know what either of them are expecting from him.

“It’s shit,” says Potter, earnest as though he means it, as though he understands. Draco knows he does. “And it isn’t fair. Give yourself a chance, Malfoy. There is still hope.”

Draco’s laugh is a visible breath, but it isn’t sardonic. It doesn’t feel bitter. It feels like…like it might be…true? 

Is this the magic of Harry Potter?

Creating truth out of impossible things for impossible people?

No wonder everyone loves him. 

_ Do it again _ , he wants to say, thinking of the hug.  _ Prove to me it’s real and not a dream. Make it tangible and touchable, and prove it.  _

But, instead, Draco says, “Let’s fly.”

 

* * *

 

Harry kicks off and they take to the air. He feels the boy squeak with excitement, locked between his arms, soft blonde hair tickling his nose. Harry grins. Though little Draco has been flying for most of his nine years, Harry recalls his own younger days on a broom and the rush in his stomach and the heady mix of excitement and adrenaline and just the right amount of fear, and by the feel of him, the hands a death-grip on the broom handle beneath Harry’s own, that is exactly what the boy is feeling. 

Harry takes them faster and higher, climbing climbing above the castle, higher and higher until they touch the clouds. And there, Harry pauses, letting them float suspended in the sky, letting the boy catch his breath.

Draco’s grip doesn’t give a fraction, but he does lean out to peer down below.

“ _ Oh _ ,” he breathes, and Harry laughs again. 

“Bit high?”

“A bit.”

“Too high?”

The blonde head shakes  _ no _ . 

The clouds part and Malfoy joins them, sitting tall and easy on the sleek, black broom. There’s a new wariness, Harry notices, when their eyes catch. Not friendly, not yet, but with none of the old hostility either. Something has shifted. 

“You got it?” Harry calls over the wind, and Malfoy holds up something that flashes gold.

Little Draco wriggles, excitement spilling. 

_ How can anyone want to be cruel to this kid? _

It hurts Harry’s heart.

“Ready, Potter?”

A hundred snarks present themselves on the tip of Harry’s tongue, but before he can pick between them, Draco yells, “Go!”

They go.

Malfoy throws the Snitch up high and the wind catches its wings and brings it to life.

And the chase is on.

It is a dance they have done together for years, but it’s better this time without a crowd or the pressure of the team, and the boy in his arms loving every second, every moment, as they plummet down and streak across the empty pitch, weaving through the stands like thread through a loom, so fast that all the reds and greens and yellows and blues blur into an impossible rainbow, and all that matters is that little flash of gold in front of them. 

“Faster,” Draco whispers, and Harry obliges. 

A hair behind, Malfoy grits his teeth and urges his Nimbus on.

It is the simple fact of design that a Firebolt will out-pace a Nimbus when their riders are as equally matched as Malfoy and Harry. It’s a testament to Malfoy’s skill that he can keep up as well as he can. It’s a strange feeling, to be suddenly struck by that thought. Malfoy has been flying his whole life, rising before dawn most days for solo practise, drilling his team hard and constantly. Drilling himself harder, longer. 

And it’s never made a bit of difference,

“ _ Harry!”  _ The shout comes high-pitched with terror, and it’s a close swerve to avoid crashing headlong into the stands. 

Malfoy takes the advantage, lying flat on his broom, stream-lining with needle-point precision, fingers sharp and reaching; every bit of him focused with perfect precision. His form is crafted to perfection. Harry can’t believe it’s taken this long to notice, to be impressed by it.

“Faster!” the boy shrieks against the wind, grabbing for Harry’s focus. “We’re going to  _ lose _ !”

Harry grits his teeth, holds tighter and  _ flies _ .

Through the stadium and across the pitch, faster faster, “ _ Faster, Harry!” _

Screw Oliver Wood and Gryffindor reputation, this is the most pressure Harry has ever flown under and  _ dammit _ he wants to win!

So does Malfoy.

Little Draco gives a yell of dismay just as Malfoy gives a shout of triumph, snatching the Snitch out of the air.

“ _ Yes! _ ” He leaps off the Nimbus before it even stops, holding the flash of gold aloft.

Harry has seen Malfoy catch a Snitch before, has witnessed him winning games for Slytherin single-handedly against Hufflepuff  _ and _ Ravenclaw, but he’s never seen such heady elation in the Slytherin. And it is only joyous. There is no snug satisfaction, no snide boasting, just  _ joy _ as he grins, eyes bright, face flushed, hair a mussed disaster, and turns back to Harry and Draco.

Harry stills his broom to a steady hover, holding the boy tight, feeling the hammering heart beneath his palm, aware — strangely — of his own feelings though uncertain what they mean

 

* * *

 

They sit high in the deserted stands and watch the boy whiz around the pitch after the Snitch on his own. It is a strange thing, to be in such close proximity with each other and for the air to feel so peaceful.

“I can’t believe it took seven years,” says Malfoy, shaking his head with a laugh, pushing his hair back from his face. “I can’t believe no-one was around to see it. They’ll never believe me, you know. Shit.” But there’s no anger there, just breathless exhilaration. He glances sideways and catches Harry’s stare, pink tinging his cheeks. “Why’re you looking at me like that, Potter?”

“I wish we had done this sooner.” The admittance falls before Harry can catch it, and he flushes too. But it’s too late to do anything about it now. It hangs in the air between them, thick in the sudden silence. “I wish it’d been like this from the beginning,” Harry pushes on when the quiet is too much. “This is so much more fun than…whatever we were before.”

“Mmm.” 

“You’re talented, Malfoy.”

“Not as talented as you.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Don’t patronize me, Potter.”

“I’m not,” Harry insists. “I’m serious. You’re better than me.”

“Then why is this the first time I’ve been able to beat you?”

“Because you weren’t panicking.”

Malfoy’s eyes go wild, and the new ease stiffens into old rigidity. “I don’t panic.”

“It’s okay to care—”

“Caring isn’t the same as panicking.”

“Sometimes it is. When the stakes are set too high.”

Malfoy says nothing, just watches the boy on the broom.

“Have you ever thought about flying professionally?” Harry asks. He expects Malfoy to laugh and tell him that Malfoys don’t fly.

But instead, Malfoy says, softly, “Yes.”

“Really?”

“There’s a programme in Italy. World-renowned. I applied on a whim near the start of the year. They sent someone to watch me play. Thankfully not against you. I, ah, I got the acceptance letter a month ago.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I haven’t accepted,” says Malfoy quickly. “No-one knows. But it’s…some sort of validation, even if I do nothing with it. I’ll always know I could’ve. If I wanted to.”

“You don’t?”

Malfoy shifts, pulling one leg on top of the other. “I don’t know. It would be a…statement. To say the least. I don’t know I have the energy. And it’s no guarantee of success. It’s a year of intensive training, and at the end I’ll be left just as I would be if I didn’t do it, only with more bridges burned and fewer prospects.” He inspects his hands, folded in his lap. “I don’t know if it’s worth it. I doubt it is.”

“I thought your dad was obsessed with your Quidditch stuff? Isn’t that why he bought you all those brooms?”

“Father is obsessed with anything that brings glory to the Malfoy name,” Malfoy responds thinly. “It is the same reason he is obsessed with me obtaining the highest marks in my exams despite the fact he is pressuring me to leave before my N.E.W.Ts. Father lives by his own logic. Being the Malfoy heir is the only acceptable career, and qualifying credentials are very firmly set in place. Being the best is one of them. Being good enough to play Quidditch professionally is not. It’s a…fine line. Difficult to navigate, even when you’re used to it. Like the rules keep shifting just as you learn them.”

“Sounds like shitty rules,” says Harry bluntly. “Sounds like you’d be better off playing by your own instead of chasing whatever bull-shit games your father throws out.” He bumps shoulders, almost forgetting who he is talking to. “Like Quidditch. Do it. Go to Italy. You deserve it. You  _ earned  _ it.”

Grey eyes go huge, and there’s a little twitch of a smile before Malfoy’s head drops once more. “I can’t afford it.”

Harry laughs before he can stop himself. “ _ You _ can’t afford it? How expensive is it?”

“You think my parents would pay for me to waste another year of their precious time? I don’t have an income, Potter. Anything I have, it was given to me by my father on the condition that I behave. He is just as quick to remove as he is to give.”

“Have you looked into scholarships?”

“As if I’d qualify for a scholarship,” Malfoy mutters. “As soon as they see my name, they’ll know who I am and where I come from. No-one would read ‘Malfoy’ and think, oh yes, he needs financial aid. It doesn’t matter, anyhow. I didn’t apply to go. I applied to see if I could. I and I did. That’s it. I wasn’t intending anything to come of it. I just…wanted something of my own. Or, at least, to dream a little that it might be possible to have something on my own. Dreams are very sustaining, you know.”

_ Jesus fucking christ _ , Harry thinks, blowing into his hands, cold despite the thick, Quidditch gloves. “You could be anything you wanted to be. Even I can see that. All it would take is a little bravery.”

“I don’t do brave,” Malfoy snaps. “I’m not a Gryffindor.”

Harry laughs. “There are different kinds of brave. You owe it to yourself—”

“Enough.” It is softly spoken, but a command nevertheless, and Harry finds himself willing to obey. Malfoy sighs, tucking his hair back behind his ear. “I meant what I said to him,” he murmurs. “The best we can do is protect ourselves.”

“Surviving isn’t living—”

“You can’t save me, Potter.” 

The simple statement of fact sparks Harry’s blood, the call to a challenge so strong it’s physical.  _ Let me try _ , he wants to beg.  _ Let me prove you wrong. _

Instead, Harry says nothing, just holds out his hand, palm upwards.

Malfoy looks at it in absolute horror, then quirks an eyebrow at Harry. “What?”

Harry continues to hold out his hand in silence.

Malfoy gives a little huff that could possibly mistaken for a laugh, then places his own hand carefully upon Harry’s. It’s warmer than Harry expected, the skin soft and the bones beneath fine. He closes his fingers, pressing against Malfoy’s sharp knuckles, squeezing just slightly.

The boy zips by, twisting sharply to reach and grab and catch the Snitch with a whoop of triumph, and Malfoy’s fingers curl around his hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Sorry for the absence but EXCITING NEW! I have a literary agent now!! I'm working hard on revisions for my middle grade novel, so that's priority, but fic is my chill time and I am not giving it up in the slightest. I even checked with my agent on the call to make sure I could keep writing my fic ^^
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter <3


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